


Knowing and Feeling

by camper



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A Pinch of Angst, Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Prickly Inquistior, Sex, Slow Burn, actually lots of angst, relationship centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-04-30 13:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 121,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camper/pseuds/camper
Summary: It could hardly be love,she scoffed to herself.Two kisses do not a bond make. The strange twinge her heart was a rebuttal in and of itself. She resolved herself to review every reason it was impossible and, even if it were not, it would be vastly unwise.You hardly know him, she began. It was first and foremost atop the list of reasons to reign in her fool heart.Her mind swam with images of Solas, snippets of memories that built the foundation of her feelings for the apostate. Fingertips brushing against her calves as he wrapped her feet. His fingers laced with hers in the center of Val Royeaux. Cards held elegantly between his fingers, a wolfish grin on his face. The feeling of his hands in her hair as he braided it into a crown around her head. His compassion in Redcliffe, and a tonic for dreamless sleep he’d pressed into her palm for the nightmares that followed. His unwillingness to let her face Corpyheus and his archdemon without him, and the passionate kiss they’d shared as she left to face him. And last…I thought I had lost you.Fuck.Itwaslove.





	1. Chapter 1

If she had to describe it, the most accurate words she could find would be a “hate/hate” relationship. Sure, she’d argued with people before, especially in her adoptive clan— _you must refrain from including such language in the traditional songs of the People,_ or _a giant axe is not a feasible weapon for a hunter,_ or _it is hardly appropriate to confiscate the Keeper’s smallclothes—_ but nothing remotely akin to the level of tension she felt when she was with that damned mage. Hara was as far from a favorite of Clan Lavellan as it were possible to be, but even then, she could often find some common ground with those she worked alongside.

Solas was a different story.

Hara knew, on some level, that dwelling on her “relationship” with Solas (if you could even call the frosty, tense awkwardness between them a relationship) could only stoke the flames of animosity between them. Hara was the type to sit and fester about something, and her mouth was liable to pop off without a moment’s notice when the offending party did or said something that was the last straw to break the halla’s back. If she were being _really_ honest with herself, she might even say she ought to make a greater effort to be respectful towards (or at least tolerant of) Solas, given he’d technically kept her alive since the explosion at the Conclave. And he was a talented mage, and had saved her ass more than a few times in recent battles, especially with that bear.

Hara knew _, logically_ , all of these things to be true. Knowing and feeling are two very different things.

She, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas were dispatched to the Hinterlands, attempting to salvage the wreckage of the populace in light of the mage/templar fighting there. Hara’s head was still reeling from the aftermath of the Conclave, much less Solas’s antagonistic orientation towards both herself and the Dalish as a whole. Hell, she was no great fan of what she (personally considered to be) some of the more backward ways of thinking her adoptive clan endorsed, but there was just something about Solas’s downright dismissal of the people who’d (begrudgingly) accepted (or tolerated) her that set her teeth on edge.

She’d been taken in by Clan Lavellan about a decade earlier, at the ripe old age of thirteen. She’d lived with her grandfather in the Wycome alienage since she was a child, and he often traded the cloth he wove to the clan for herbs, meat, and other necessities that were difficult to come by in the alienage. Once, he’d traded a beautifully woven blanket for a hand-crafted lute. When he passed… well, Clan Lavellan was really her only option. As far as Hara knew, Clan Lavellan’s keeper had made some sort of an arrangement with her grandfather—a plan for her, when he died. She left the alienage a mixture of trepidation and woe, hopeful for a new adventure but heartbroken at the loss of the only family she’d ever known.

Her adjustment to the clan was, predictably, difficult. She tried not to dwell on it and focused instead on the present.

Keeper Deshanna had been concerned about the Conclave and had sent her as a spy to return back with information; she knew this was largely because the Clan viewed her as disposable, but she tried not to hold a grudge about it. She’d never really _fit_ there, just like she’d never really _fit_ anywhere. For a while, she lived in the shadow of pity surrounding her childhood in the alienage and her grandfather’s death. She hardly knew how to handle someone, anyone, feeling _sorry_ for her, so she became bothersome and mouthy and sarcastic instead. It was easier to bear scorn than pity.

Hara took a deep breath and tried to shake herself out of these thoughts, a practice that was becoming all-too-common since they’d arrived in the Hinterlands three days prior. Hara, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas had parleyed with Mother Giselle on their first day in the area and were now focusing on stabilizing the area immediately around the Crossroads. They had made camp under the shelter of a waterfall where they’d met an enchanter named Ellendra, a wearied apostate mage trying to avoid the fighting on both sides of the war, and Hara was set to take the second watch of the night.

She relieved Cassandra from the first watch and settled down near their small fire. She smiled wryly as she listened to the nighttime symphony that characterized Varric’s tell-tale snore and added a bit more kindling to the fire. She leaned back on her elbows and turned her face towards the sky, peering up at the stars around the rocky overhang that served as part of their nightly shelter. She rubbed her marked palm absentmindedly, trying to stave off the dull ache she felt there.

“Is the mark troubling you?” asked a low, quiet voice behind her.

Hara sucked in a deep breath and cocked her head behind her, feeling her heart catch in her throat. “Shit, Solas!” she cursed, a bit too loudly given her sleeping companions and the village below, “You scared me.”

Solas cocked an auburn eyebrow at her. “My apologies. I hardly expected to startle a _talented_ hunter like yourself, especially on such a quiet night.” His tone dripped with sarcasm even as he managed to look concerned about her hand.

Hara gritted her teeth in response, trying to bite back an equally sarcastic response. She took another steadying breath and chose to respond to his original question rather than his remark. “My hand is fine. You can go back to sleep. Varric will wake you for the last watch in a few hours.”

Predictably, Solas did not listen to her. He settled down beside her and extended his hand, a wordless invitation for her to proffer her own for examination.

Hara rolled her eyes and held out her hand, but could not fight back to the urge to complain a bit. “This is hardly necessary, _mamae_. I said it was fine. I must've swung my axe too hard when we were hunting earlier." 

“An axe is hardly a feasible weapon for hunting wild game,” he muttered, ignoring her goading comment and turning her hand this way and that in the light of the campfire.

Hara took the opportunity to stick her tongue out at him as he was otherwise preoccupied with his examination.

Solas gently prodded at her palm, the blue of his magic pulsing against her hand, and Hara could not help but sigh with relief when she felt the ache subside to a twinge, and then disappear altogether. Solas released her hand and turned his gaze to the fire she’d been stoking.

“My thanks,” she muttered, reaching for an errant stick to poke at her fire. “That helped.”

“I am glad,” Solas remarked, and turned his own, unmarked face up towards the heavens to study the skies as Hara had before he’d interrupted her. She almost envied his bare face. It reminded her of her own before coming to Clan Lavellan, and by proxy, her grandfather’s. She’d been marked for Mythal, the golden branches of her vallaslin creeping across her forehead, down her nose, and along the sides of her face. Really, Andruil would’ve suited her better, if she’d thought the meaning behind it was important. She didn’t. She just thought Mythal’s branches were beautiful. They reminded her of the _vhenadahl_ in the Wycome alienage, where her grandfather had taught her to expertly pluck the strings of his lute.

She added her stick to the flames and reached up to her strawberry blonde hair, adjusting the complex braid that ran behind her right ear and trailed down her shoulder. She kept the left side of her head closely cropped—practically shaved, really— and appreciated its practicality when hunting; she couldn’t bring herself to shear her head altogether, though it would admittedly save her both time and frustration. Her hair was waist-long, stick straight, and tended to become static-y when it was humid, or cold, or the wind blew too intensely, or—and the list went on.

She stuck her legs straight out in front of her and reached her hands past her feet, stretching the tension from the back of her thighs as she laid her head on her knees. Hara stayed in this position for a few breaths, willing the tension to leave her limbs. Though she’d never admit it out loud, he was right: sprinting after rams with a two-handed axe was both tedious and taxing, and her body was feeling the effects of the day. She was talented with a bow as well, but she relished the sense of power behind swinging such a monstrous weapon. _Safer, really_ , she thought, _to walk softly and carry a big axe_.

Solas remained quiet, and Hara couldn’t decide if she preferred his silence to his sarcasm. She wasn’t particularly good with words to begin with and the tension between them made her even more unsure of how, or even if, to break the silence.

To her relief, Varric stumbled out of his tent, bleary-eyed, rubbing his face with the back of his hairy hand. “C’mon, Hare, you were supposed to wake me up for my shift,” he muttered.

Hara straightened up and angled her face towards him, flashing a broad, beaming smile. Varric was the only person she’d met so far in the Inquisition that she felt she could just _be_ around, without posturing or staying quiet to avoid saying the wrong thing. Hara was no stranger to missteps—some of which were intentional, honestly—but she was trying to keep them to a minimum around the members of the Inquisition. She hadn’t forgotten that she’d been shackled in the dungeons below Haven less than a month ago. She wasn’t particularly keen on returning there, either—even though she’d since taken the opportunity to practice picking every lock in the place under the moonlight. _Just for practice_ , she told herself, _better safe than sorry._

“I didn’t forget. It isn't time yet,” she answered, scooting over so that he had room to join them by the fire. “And besides, perhaps I was trying to do you a kindness. I owe you my thanks for helping me bring in twice as many rams as that hunter requested.”

Varric grinned and rubbed the stubble along his chin. “Ah, I think you’ll want to thank Bianca for that instead. She’s the real hero here.”

Solas stood silently and gave a polite smile to Varric. He angled his face back towards Hara. “If the mark is no longer troubling you, I’ll bid you both goodnight.”

“As I said before, it's fine,” she mumbled in his direction, automatically worrying at her palm again.

As Solas disappeared into the same tent Varric had emerged from minutes earlier, Hara gave an audible sigh of relief.

Varric raised an eyebrow. “What is it with you and Chuckles, Hare? Can’t you elves just play nice?”

She ignored the nickname he’d been trying out on her and narrowed her amber eyes at him. “Hare” was a bit too close to “rabbit” for her comfort, but she thought she might offend Varric for pointing out the comparison and she wasn’t about to alienate the one person she felt comfortable around.

“I _am_  nice, Varric. Incredibly nice, otherwise I’d've hacked him in two with my axe by now.”

“Come on, Hare, you don’t mean that!” Varric chastised good-naturedly, “You know Chuckles only wants to help.”

“Does he, now?" She questioned, a dubious look upon her face. "If his intention is to be helpful, he should be less critical when he offers it,” she muttered.

“Ah, sure," Varric responded, a smirk upon his face, "But then he wouldn’t be the Chuckles we know and are growing to love, now would he?”

Hara had no comment. She crinkled her freckle-covered nose at him and let the conversation drop. Instead, she began to worry with her boots, poking at a hole that was forming near the end of her right one. She’d taken many a ribbing from her clanmates over her choice of footwear rather than foot wraps, but she had dropped her axe on her toes one too many times to forgo her boots. Privately, she wished she could go barefoot altogether, but she was too clumsy with heavy weaponry and unwilling to abide another broken toe.

“What’s on the agenda for tomorrow, then?” Varric asked, and Hara breathed another sigh of relief that he was changing the subject. It was bad enough that she had to _be_ around Solas. She didn’t want to spend the moments of reprieve she had from him hashing through their contentious relationship.

“Well, I thought we’d turn our attentions on locating those supply caches Whittle mentioned. I _hate_ being cold,” she said empathically, “So I know I’d appreciate it if someone did something to help me sleep a little warmer at night. Given so many have lost their homes, it's the least we can do for them.”

Varric beamed at her. “I know something that could warm you up at night,” he said snarkily.

Hara walloped him with a nearby stick. “You ass! You know what I meant." Her tone was flat, distinctly unamused, but the corners of her mouth were quirked into an almost-smile. 

“Yes, yes, I know,” he replied, chuckling softly, “But you walked right into that one. You have to admit it.”

Hara smirked. “I concede, O Great and Witty Storyteller.”

“Now that’s a nickname I could get used to!” Varric grinned.

“Yes, but it’s _such_ a mouthful,” Hara replied.

“I know.” Varric’s eyes widened and his smile grew ever more broad, “Makes it even more fitting.”

Hara responded with an "Ugh!" worthy of Cassandra herself. Varric laughed so hard he snorted, pretended he couldn’t breathe, threw himself dramatically to the ground alongside the campfire, and acted as though he had suffocated and died.

It was going to be a long night. 


	2. Chapter 2

Hara awoke the next morning to the smell of something cooking—or burning, more like it. She crinkled her nose, rubbed some sleep from her brown eyes, and crawled out of her tent on her hands and knees. She wasn’t entirely opposed to mornings, but she’d slept uneasily the night before. She vaguely remembered her dreams—smelling charred flesh, stretched grey and thin over corpses that burned unnaturally in the ruined basin near the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Her stomach turned as her brain connected the smell of burning flesh with… whatever Cassandra was charring over a campfire this morning.

“You’re burning it, Seeker!” Varric scolded, staring over Cassandra’s shoulder and attempting to give her pointers. “You’ve got to _turn_  the bacon or you’ll _burn_  the bacon…”

Cassandra let out a signature “UGH” and rolled her eyes at the dwarf attempting to coach her through breakfast. Varric looked immensely pleased with himself, and Hara wondered if it was because he’d annoyed Cassandra or made a stupid rhyme. _Both, probably both._

Hara shuffled awkwardly over near the campfire, joining the rogue and the Seeker near the warmth and plopping herself down on a nearby log. Varric beamed at her in greeting, while Cassandra regarded her with a searching look before returning her focus to the charred strips of meat she was poking around the cast iron skillet held over the campfire coals. Hara took a deep, steadying breath. She and Cassandra were on rocky grounds still. She knew the Seeker appreciated her help sealing the rifts and was beginning to trust her—or at least, _thrust_ her into duties associated with the Inquisition—but Hara could hardly say she returned the sentiment.

Hara did want to help—deeply, actually, and Cassandra had been accommodating and kinder since she’d agreed to help their cause and dedicated herself to healing the Breach—but she wasn’t about to forget the Seeker’s rage when she’d awoken marked. 

“Morning, everyone,” Hara mumbled, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her gaze took in their surroundings and she mentally took inventory of the tents, their supplies, and so on. She noted one fussy, elven apostate peculiarly absent. “Where’s Solas?”

“Solas has gone to gather elfroot this morning. The Inquisition needs to significantly expand its stores and the refugees at the Crossroads are in sore need of healing supplies as well,” Cassandra responded. She was still messing about with the bacon, turning it this way and that as Varric had previously instructed.

Hara idly wondered if all Seekers were so culinarily disinclined, or if this small failing was unique to Cassandra. Varric seemed to be of the same mind and tutted at Cassandra, shooing her away with dismissive waves of both hands. Cassandra relinquished the skillet, though her face couldn’t seem to decide whether she felt grateful at Varric’s timely intervention or irritated at his lack of faith in her cooking abilities. Although Varric seemed to keep the bacon from burning, the smell was still nauseating.

Hara rose abruptly from her perch, feeling her stomach continue to churn as her mind connected the smell with the bodies she’d revisited in her dreams. “I'll join Solas and add my efforts to the cause,” she rushed out, “Can’t hurt to have another set of eyes.”

Varric’s eyebrows shot up, no doubt wondering about her sudden inclination to spend even a modicum of time around the elven mage who so irritated her. Hara waved her hand at him, as if to say, _I haven’t had any grand revelations about him; he’s still a pain in the ass, and I’ll just have to leave it at that for now_. She doubted the odd flick of her wrist actually conveyed this much meaning, but she didn’t have time to hash it out with the dwarf. She doubted adding vomit to the bacon would improve its taste, and she needed to extricate herself quickly before she lost her dinner. Besides, she had no intentions of joining forces with Solas; she could hunt alone for their supplies.

“Come on, Hare, you don’t want to miss breakfast!” Varric called after her as she snatched her axe, climbed down from the camp, and all-but-sprinted through the Crossroads to access the nearby fields. She wanted to respond with something snarky, but worried that if she opened her mouth it wouldn’t end well—gastronomically speaking, at the very least.

She had just crested a hill into the open field—she knew she’d be out of their sight now—before she stumbled behind a large, gnarled tree and vomited. She was sweaty and shaking by the time her stomach had divested itself of last night’s fennec stew, and she backpedaled away from her mess as she took in deep, steadying breaths. _You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine_. She repeated it silently, like a mantra, with the cadence of the rhymes her grandfather used to conjure for her late at night when she was stricken with insomnia or terrified by things she’d seen in her dreams.

She took a few more steadying breaths before pushing herself off the ground. _You’ll feel better if you give yourself a job, something else to focus on. Get it together_. She brushed her leather breeches off, straightened her tunic, and nodded to herself. _To work._

She climbed a bit further uphill, eyes trained on the ground, searching out the healing roots, ears all-but-swiveling as she focused on listening for potential threats. Be it Templars or bears, she knew she needed to be on her guard. She soon lost herself in the work of searching out elfroot and stuffing the plants in the many pockets of her tunic and breeches; she’d left in such a hurry that she’d forgotten her satchel. Sweat began to prick at the back of her neck and her stomach gave an odd gurgle. Hara flicked her eyes upwards and with a start, realized it had grown much later than she’d anticipated. Based on the position of the sun, she figured it was almost noon now, meaning she’d been gone for… At least four hours. _Shit._

She’d wandered quite a long ways from their camp above the Crossroads into a clearing that would undoubtedly make another excellent place to set up a small base for the Inquisition. She found herself in a small but protected alcove uphill from the King’s Road, accented by a pond surrounded by some peculiar, reed-like plants with bulbous flowers she’d yet to identify as well as more elfroot and embrium. She stuffed everything she found down the front of her tunic and had even snuck a few of the unusual, darkly colored plants into her breastband. The heat of the midday sun and the numerous plants she’d shoved in her pockets and tucked into the bands of her clothing made her feel even itchier, and she cursed herself again for forgetting her pack.

She figured the best option would be to wander her way back to their original camp so that she could distribute the mass of elfroot she obtained to the refugees and sort through the other options with the help of someone more knowledgable about herbs. _Probably Solas,_ she thought irritably. She wasn’t particularly keen on having him lord more knowledge over her and would’ve bet good coin that he’d disparage the Dalish for failing to teach her—a huntress, no less—about the uses for the strangely bulbous plant she’d picked up.

She tried to push him out of her mind again as she backtracked towards camp. She figured she’d make much better time getting back than she had wandering all the way to the alcove she’d left, simply because she wasn’t trying to hunt for supplies simultaneously. Hara was grateful that she’d taken stock of particular landmarks along the way, but after about half an hour of successful back-tracking, was beginning to get concerned.

Her vision swam around the corners and her mouth was incredibly dry. She wiped the sweat from her face and, much to her consternation, discovered that it appeared _sludge-like_ on the back of her hand as she lowered it from her brow. Her sweat appeared to drip in great, purple globs from the back of her hand. _What in the name of Andraste’s sweet ass…?_

Hara came to an abrupt halt, lifting the offending appendage in front of her face. The sludge was gone. Had she imagined…? She shook her head to refocus herself and went to lift her thick strawberry blonde braid off of her neck to allow the breeze to dry the sticky skin there.

Her braid was made of feathers - great, big, twisted feathers where her plait should've been. She turned it this way and that in the sunlight, both admiring its sheen and horrified at its presence at the same time. She came to herself, bit back a yelp of surprise, and dropped the offending plait. As soon as it hit her shoulder again, it was back to normal. She tested the braid again, her other hand reaching up to the shaved half of her head to check it as well. She was relieved to find soft stubble there and took another steadying breath. 

 _Focus_ , she willed herself. She managed to find the tree she’d unceremoniously painted with her dinner that morning and directed herself to walk towards it. It was close enough to their original camp above the Crossroads, and she knew that if she hurried she'd be able to deliver the herbs and have someone—not Solas—check her over. Was the Mark affecting her perception? Was she losing her mind? Breaking underneath the stress and pressure of the immense load of bullshit she'd been subjected to over the past month?  _For fuck's sake, focus_ , she chided herself again. 

She felt herself becoming unstable and woozy, but she knew if she could just _get there,_ all would be well. She sluggishly meandered her way to the tree, feeling as though her limbs were made of iron. Why did she feel so damn heavy? She felt her axe slipping out of her grip and she wondered about the utility of the weapon she clung to.  _Maybe Solas was right? This isn't really feasible..._ Now she  _knew_ her mind was failing her. She'd never agree with anything he said under normal circumstances. 

Hara lost her grip on the hilt of her axe and the weapon slipped from her grasp as she stumbled into the tree. She had just pressed her hands against the dark brown bark when it shifted to scales underneath her palms. She couldn’t bite back her response this time, couldn't contain a strangled yelp of surprise before falling backwards. She felt her head connect with the unforgiving roots of the tree before her consciousness faded and darkness enveloped her. 


	3. Chapter 3

She awoke hours later, darkness enveloping her, thin bedroll underneath her, canvas above her, head aching something fierce. She worked her jaw and closed her eyes again, palms pressing into them, willing the ache away. Her mind called up a memory of when she’d stolen wine from the Keeper’s aravel shortly after she’d been collected from the Wycome alienage, heartsick and feeling terribly alone after her grandfather’s death. Malnourished as she was at that time, it was unsurprising how terribly drunk she’d gotten and how violently ill she’d been the next day. She still couldn’t drink wine without feeling nauseous. She pushed the thought aside quickly, corking it in the seemingly bottomless container that held all of the memories she had of unpleasant things. She hated that most things that reminded her of her grandfather had become tainted in that way. She tried not to open it too often lest it all spill out and overwhelm her.

Breathing deeply, she took stock of herself. The last thing she remembered was… Falling, scales underneath her palms where treebark belonged instead, clothes practically stuffed to the brim with all manner of herbs she’d lost herself hunting earlier that morning. _Right, the herbs—where were the herbs?_ She sat up abruptly, patting her pockets, hands searching in the bands of her clothing, her… smalls. Her smalls. She’d put those unusual plants in her breastband, and now they were missing, as were the rest of her spoils.

“Shit,” she cursed, a blush creeping across her cheeks, her numerous light brown freckles starkly visible against the pinkness of her skin even in the dim lighting.

“Easy, Scarecrow,” came Varric’s low, chuckling voice. “Cassandra divested you of your stuffing. Quite a haul you made there. Probably would’ve ended better if you hadn’t stuffed yourself full of blood lotus, though.” He smirked at her, eyes twinkling. “Bet you saw some strange shit, huh?”

Her eyes widened in recognition. Blood lotus hadn’t grown in the Marches, but the Keeper had warned her about similarly poisonous plants, things to avoid when hunting at home or elsewhere. Hallucinations… it caused hallucinations. She felt a rush of relief and amusement wash over her, and she laughed - threw her head back and laughed until she practically couldn’t breathe.

“Silly shit, too, then,” Varric laughed along with her, rubbing the stubble at his chin as he so often did. He regarded her with a broad smile, shaking his head, and she imagined he was thinking of the best way to convey this episode in a story, could practically see the quill in his hands.

“No, no,” Hara breathed, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand, “Weird, maybe even a little terrifying, but much less so than thinking this shit on my hand had taken my sanity as well as my freedom. Thanks for monitoring my, uh… condition.” She smiled sheepishly at him. While she appreciated his mothering, she was embarrassed to have needed it. 

“No problem,” came Varric’s easy reply, “Figured you’d wake up sometime tonight, and it was preferable to playing delivery dwarf around the Crossroads with your elfroot. You can do the same for me when we get back to Haven, okay? I’ll drink myself into a veritable stupor and you can babysit me, even the playing field between us. You also have to buy the drinks, though.”

Solas peered irritably into the tent she and Varric were sharing, their laughter having drawn his attention from whatever he had been doing outside. “I see you’ve chosen to rejoin the living,” he snapped. She noted the polishing cloth in his hand and figured he’d been cleaning his staff. _Had they had to fight something off in their efforts to retrieve her?_ She hoped not, but given her luck… they’d probably fought off an army of bear-riding apostates before hauling her back to camp.

His blue eyes narrowed at her, and she could practically feel the disapproval roiling off of him in waves as he entered the tent, ducking to avoid hitting his head. The easy laughter she’d shared with Varric practically evaporated with the dour look he gave her.

Still, she couldn’t resist goading him.

“What, me?” She asked innocently, “I’m just trying to be more like you, _hahren_ , with all the time you spend in the Faaade.” She drew the word out, adding a playful waver to her voice, wriggling her fingers for emphasis. She mocked a pout and cast her eyes down dramatically, looking up at him through her lashes. “Will I never cease to disappoint you?”

Predictably, the dwarf extricated himself from the situation. “And that’s my cue to leave! Anyway, best make sure the Seeker isn’t making charcoal of our supper…” He shuffled out of the tent, barely needing to duck.

Solas’ gaze followed Varric out of the tent, though his body remained oriented towards Hara. “It seems not, _da’len_. Truly, you are as Dalish as they come.” He said it flatly, eyes traveling lazily over her _vallaslin_ , mouth a thin line, before locking his gaze with her own. Hara saw a flash of mirth through his irritation, the corners of his mouth almost twitching into a smile before he seemed to remember himself and clench his jaw again.

He couldn’t have known how that would wound her, but her face fell and she knew her treacherous eyes revealed her hurt. She could see the recognition on his face, knew that _he_ knew he’d touched some deeply sensitive place. She saw his lips begin to part and she was sure he meant to apologize.

 _Scorn over pity_ , she reminded herself, resolved herself to muster a broad grin and a biting tone. “Go fuck yourself, Solas,” she said with mock cheer, and pushed past him to follow Varric out of the tent.

She’d always cursed her expressive face; she’d never been able to get away with anything under her grandfather’s watchful eye, and the elders of Clan Lavellan were no less attuned to any kind of posturing or deception she’d attempted to carry out. It had originally baffled her that they’d sent _her_ , of all people, to spy on the Conclave, as clumsy and unsuited to duplicity as she was, aside from minor tricks and prank-pulling to amuse little ones.

Of course, this was before she’d realized it was her disposable nature rather than her skill with deceit that made her the perfect candidate to observe the talks.

The Clan had hunters aplenty and she hadn’t the talent for weaving her grandfather had, much to their disappointment. She could knit rather well, but only in squares, and how many blankets and ridiculous scarves could one clan possibly need? Her high, clear voice was a pleasure to listen to, but they’d had to trade her grandfather’s lute for rations in Wycome one particularly thin winter, and she’d purposefully butcher their songs in her attempts to draw the laughter from the little ones as a distraction from their empty bellies on hungry nights. She loved to watch the children, but too many of their parents thought she was a bad influence, and often scolded them for spending too much time around her. Even the halla seemed averse to her presence, and she couldn’t even offend them with her words.

It was part of why Solas’ snark had hurt so much. It couldn’t possibly be further from the truth. She wasn’t Dalish, not really, and no _vallaslin_ , no amount of lore-learning or whispered prayers to their Creators could change that.

While she knew her standing in the clan was largely her own fault—so prone was she to either falling on the sword of laughter or feigned indifference to protect her heart—it was a slap in the face that she was to forever spend her life as an _other_. She’d been nothing but _a rabbit_ to the humans of Wycome, nothing but a bothersome _flat-eared child_ to Clan Lavellan. She was nothing to nobody, not until she’d been marked with this sickly green magic that tore the flesh of her hand asunder and made her the Herald of a prophetess she didn’t believe in. Truthfully, she only ever invoked the Maker, Andraste, or even the Creators to add some color to her profanity. _Nothing to nobody and dedicated to no one._

 _Stop_ , she told herself, feeling pinpricks at the corners of her eyes beginning to form. She joined Cassandra and Varric at the fire and ignored Solas as he emerged from the tent behind her. _You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine_.

“Ah, Herald,” Cassandra called, “I am pleased to see you _rejoin the land of the living_ , as Solas so aptly put. While I appreciate the dedication to replenishing our stocks and helping the refugees, I would appreciate it more if you’d do so without endangering anyone’s life.” Her tone was serious, but Hara saw a wry smile spread slowly across her face. The Seeker handed her a wooden bowl and spoon, offering some manner of stew for her supper.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Hara replied, sitting on one of the logs they’d drug up beside the campfire, “I’ll know better next time. And thanks for this.” She lifted the bowl for emphasis, dunking her spoon into the thick broth with a flourish. She lifted the spoon to her nose and gave it a tentative sniff. “Smells good!”

“The Seeker has a harder time burning anything liquid-based,” Varric teased through a mouthful of stew.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes thinly at him but said nothing. Hara relished the teasing between the two but merely smiled and said nothing. She didn’t want to draw Cassandra’s ire.

“How long was I out?” Hara asked. She remembered a vague, swaying sensation but couldn’t put it in context, finding that she remembered nothing after falling until she’d awoken under Varric’s watchful eye that evening.

“It is difficult to say,” came Cassandra’s reply. “Solas found you unconscious, crumpled on the ground with a head wound mid-afternoon and carried you back to camp. It must be by the Maker's grace that you were not harmed further. Our best guess was that you’d fallen, no doubt unsteadied from blood lotus toxins. Why you would choose to carry them in such an… interesting manner… is beyond me.” Cassandra’s face seemed to color somewhat at the recollection, and Hara remembered she’d removed the plants from her clothing per Varric’s report.

Hara’s face colored as well, though it had more to do with the thought of Solas carrying her unconscious body back to their traveling companions than with Cassandra’s removing the plants from her breastband. She knew she should thank him, apologize for being so much trouble, show appreciation for the fact that he’d obviously healed her head wound while she slept.

She didn't. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Seeker, can you teach me how to, ah…” Hara made a vague gesture around her head.

Cassandra’s brow crinkled in confusion. Hara knew what she wanted to ask but was embarrassed to do so. She tried not to bother the Seeker for anything; although their last two weeks in the Hinterlands had done much to assuage her misgivings with the Seeker, Hara was still wary of her. She doubted she was about to make some grand, unforgivable request, but it was still hard to get the words out, to ask for something, anything, and she was second-guessing herself.

“What? Teach you to what?” Cassandra pressed. “If you would like to learn the charging maneuver I utilized in our last battle, I would be happy to demonstrate it for you.”

“Err…” Hara continued eloquently.

“Or how to draw an enemy’s focus and bolster your guard by challenging them,” Cassandra continued, excitement beginning to color her voice.

“Ah…” Another silver-tongued reply on Hara’s behalf. _You are truly a conversationalist of legend_ , she admonished herself.

Cassandra’s eyes had begun to widen with palpable excitement. “Or, oh! How about a strategy for accepting damage meant for allies who are particularly vulnerable? I am sure that would serve us well in battle! I am confident that you could master the technique, although I am not as confident in your armor at this time—”

Hara knew she’d better spit it out or resolve herself to an evening of sparring with the Seeker, and she’d be lying if she said she felt anything less than bone tired after the veritable brawl they’d gone through to make camp near Dennet’s farm. It had been an exhausting, bloody fight that had earned her a rather colorful gash across one eye in a moment of distraction as she put herself between Varric and a particularly enthusiastic Templar. She’d barely blocked the blow with her axe in time for Varric to flip away and reload Bianca, and Solas’ barrier had enveloped her a second too late.

The warrior’s sword had grazed her face before making contact with his shimmering magic; they’d all begun to rely on it as they’d become more and more exhausted from each wave of fighting. She’d hastily gulped down the remnants of a healing potion to seal the wound before launching herself back into the fray. It was enough to close the gash and keep it from bleeding distractingly as she fought, but Cassandra was sure she’d have the scar forever. She'd replied that she'd rather have an eye with a scar than a scar without an eye, earning her a short, barked laugh from Varric and a small chuckle from Solas, much to her surprise. 

Hara took a deep breath and rushed her question out quickly before she lost her nerve.

“Braid my hair like yours, up at the top.” The question practically tumbled out of her mouth and Hara gestured with her fingers around her forehead and temples for emphasis. “I’d like to keep it out of the way, and I thought of just shaving the rest off, but…”

“Oh!” Cassandra cried in recognition, her eyes widening with something like a mixture of wonder, admiration, and gentle disapproval, “Herald, you cannot! Your hair is _so_ beautiful, and it would be a shame to—“

“What’s this, Seeker?”

Varric. Of course. Was that genuine surprise as well as amusement Hara heard in his voice?

“Given to vanity, even in the name of another? My, are there ladylike sensibilities somewhere underneath that taciturn shell?” Varric teased, and a pink tinge spread across Cassandra’s cheeks and neck.

The dwarf’s grin spread easily over his face and only widened as Cassandra admonished him with a rather intense “Ugh!” She ignored him otherwise and Varric returned his attentions to servicing Bianca, the only appropriate description for the expression on his face being a “shit-eating grin.”

“I am sorry, Herald, but I’ve never even attempted something similar on longer hair,” Cassandra apologized. Hara froze as the Seeker reached out to gingerly touch the long, loose strands of her hair, almost dry from bathing in the river earlier. “And it is much thicker than mine,” she continued, relinquishing the small handful of Hara’s locks from her grasp, as if remembering herself. “Though I agree that it would be wise to do something with it. It presents a rather distinct vulnerability in battle.”

Hara rubbed the sore spot on her scalp, remembering the sharp, shooting pain she’d experienced as a Templar had wrapped his gauntlet around her braid and yanked her towards him in the battle earlier. It was a terrifying experience, having her back pressed to a man intent on killing her, feeling his hot, foul breath on her neck, bared vulnerably as the cool steel of his blade flattened against it. If he hadn’t pulled her backwards and stepped into Solas’ expertly placed ice mine…

She shook her head almost imperceptibly but smiled at Cassandra’s concern—a real, genuine smile, the first of which she’d had around the Seeker. “Thanks anyway, Cassandra.”

“You called me Cassandra!” the Seeker rushed out, eyes widening in pleasant surprise, face coloring a bit more. Hara’s initial thought was to apologize for offending the warrior but she looked so pleased, even underneath the deepening flush of her skin. Hara wasn’t sure how it was even possible for the Seeker to blush any more intensely than she already had. _How much blood does this woman have?_ The old woman who tended to the ill in the Wycome alienage would chastise her for an imbalance of humors. Surely she couldn’t possibly turn any redder.

“That _is_ your name, Seeker, in case you'd forgotten,” Varric added helpfully, polishing Bianca’s triggering mechanism, still wearing the shit-eating grin he’d sprouted earlier. “Though perhaps you’d like something a bit more… romantic? Now, let’s see, perhaps you’d be better suited to a moniker similar to the one I crafted for the Knight-Captain in _Swords and Shields_ …”

Hara was wrong. Cassandra was a _truly_ violent shade of red now. She promptly changed the subject. “Honestly, Herald, I must admit I am a bit surprised you do not know a similar technique. Many of the elven women I’ve met—albeit, that is no great number—braid their hair beautifully.” Cassandra wore an almost wistful expression on her face, as if remembering some particularly romantic arrangement of hair she'd seen once but couldn't manage to do for herself. 

“I know how to do a few things,” Hara replied, “Of course, the simple plait in threes and something my grandfa— ah, something called a fishtail.” She caught herself before mentioning her grandfather. She hadn’t told them anything beyond vague descriptions of her life with Clan Lavellan, nothing at all of the Wycome alienage. _Best to keep it that way._ “That’s how I typically wear it, seems to stay better. But no one ever taught me how to make it stay—“ she gestured to the small braid around Cassandra’s crown, “Like that.” 

Hara was sure Cassandra hadn’t noticed her slip, but she could practically feel questions radiating off of Varric. He’d been plying her with increasingly invasive questions over the past few days. _Tell me more about your Clan, Scarecrow. Were you always a hunter? How about your family? Any siblings? How about a lover back home you’re pining for… I need a little more background here!_ Luckily, Solas returned to camp with a timely interruption. He had volunteered to do the evening’s hunting after he bathed and had returned with a pouch full of root vegetables and two fat fennecs.

“I see you were successful!” Cassandra exclaimed and moved to add another log to their fire. “Here, Varric, make yourself useful and hand me our pot.”

Hara moved over slightly to allow Solas room by the fire and he sat beside her, placing the spoils of his hunt on the ground. Although Inquisition scouts had managed to deliver small staples to the refugees at the Crossroads—hard tack, grains, and the like—Hara had insisted they continue to hunt for their rations in lieu of depriving the refugees from even a small portion of their own.

“I’ll clean them,” Hara offered, extending a hand. She usually volunteered to clean the game after the clan had finished hunting. It gave her more time by herself, which meant less time she might say or do something—intentional or otherwise—to irritate someone. Solas nodded his head in thanks but held onto both fennecs. “I think I’ll clean them near the river,” she said, standing up, hand skirting around her thighs in search of her hunting knife. She frowned as she realized she didn’t have it.

“Oh, you can use mine,” Cassandra offered, passing her blade to Varric, who handed it to Solas, who then passed it to Hara. Hara bit back a smile as she remembered a game she used to play when she was small in the alienage, passing a bundle back and forth between a gaggle of elflings as they pretended it was hot and would burn their hands.

“I’ll join you,” Solas said, standing in one elegant motion, skinning knife in one hand and fennecs in the other. Hara wrinkled her nose in displeasure but said nothing. It would be quicker work with two people and arguing with Solas rarely led to a desired outcome, unless you counted amusing her and disgruntling him.She tried to think of a quip that would send him to clean his game in a different direction but she felt beholden to him for his timely intervention in their earlier skirmish and her heart wasn’t in it. She was tired.

“Alright,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders, striding towards the stream with renewed purpose, Solas following a few paces behind her.

She sat on her knees in front of the river and extended her hand in wordless invitation for Solas to hand her one of the creatures. She drew Cassandra’s knife to carefully remove the fennec’s fur and skin. As she buried her fingers in its soft fur, she was surprised to find it felt icy cold to the touch rather than lukewarm as she’d expected. She drew her hand back as quickly as if she had been burned, confusion written clearly across her features. She turned to Solas, now sitting next to her, in surprise. “Why is it so cold?!”

He gave her a wry smile. “I said I’d hunt them,” he began, “Not that I’d hunt them traditionally.”

Hara’s eyes widened and she laughed genuinely in realization. “You _froze_ them?”

Solas’ smirk confirmed her suspicions and he regarded her with a slight inclination of the head before returning his focus to dressing his own fennec.

“Isn’t that cheating, _hahren_?” Hara teased, expertly removing her fennec’s innards and washing the game in the stream. She moved her left shoulder oddly, trying to propel her hair out of her face and behind her back while her hands were busy. For all she and Cassandra had talked about braiding her hair, she’d forgotten to do so, and it had fallen into her line of vision and was becoming precariously close to drifting into the bloodied river water.

“Merely modifying a process to better suit one’s talents,” Solas replied evenly, though she could hear the amusement in his voice.

“I’ll be sure to use that the next time Varric hounds me into playing Wicked Grace with him,” she replied, focused on removing the tender meat from the fennec’s belly and below its rib cage. “I’m a terrible liar but I bet I could manage some sleight of hand…”

They worked in silence for a few more minutes, Hara continuing to blow her hair out of her face irritably whenever it drifted into her eyes as she dressed her fennec. Solas gave a long-suffering sigh, placed his cleaned game beside him, and wordlessly shifted behind Hara. “May I?” He asked.

Hara stiffened considerably, feeling oddly exposed with her hands in the water and a man she didn’t like and had only just begun to develop an uneasy trust in behind her. “May you what?” She replied uneasily, suspicion coloring her voice. “You’re not going to shove me in, are you?”

“No,” he replied irritably, “Though you certainly deserve it, for stuffing my bedroll full of acorns.” Hara choked back a laugh. “Don’t bother with an excuse, I know it was you.”

Hara was quiet, waiting for him to continue. “I overheard the last of your conversation with the Seeker earlier and thought to help you with this… nest of hair,” Solas finished, and she could feel him gesturing to the staticky strands that had finished drying, blowing in an unruly strawberry cloud about her personage.

“Oh, well, um…” Hara quickly finished butchering her fennec and set the meat awkwardly beside her. She hadn’t had her hair braided by another person since before her grandfather died and earlier, when she asked Cassandra for help, she’d primarily been seeking instructions rather than direct assistance. “I’m done with this anyway, I’ll just fix it later. Let’s not keep Varric and the Seeker waiting any longer.”

Later, stretched out underneath the stars, she would wonder about the strangely thoughtful offer he had made.

He would wonder about her penchant for rejecting even small kindnesses.


	5. Chapter 5

She was dreaming again and she knew it, the Fade shifting around her with almost nauseating speed. At one moment, she was at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, staring at the horrified, permanent scream on some nameless person’s face as it burned in perpetuity, contorted in anguish. The next, her eyes were fixed on her grandfather’s kind, worn face, his lips blue from a lack of circulation, one hand stretched out towards her as he laid next to her on their shared pallet in the hovel they called a home in the Wycome alienage.

 _This is the Fade_ , she told herself. _You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine,_ she repeated in her mind, willing away her grandfather’s corpse, wanting to backpedal away from his cold, thin body, but she was somehow compelled to reach out to him. She extended her small hand in front of his face—here, she was thirteen once more—testing for his soft, warm breath against her flesh, holding her own breath in anticipation and terror as she’d done all those years ago.

She knew he was dead, but she wanted whatever was wearing his face to prove it. She couldn’t move until she knew. Knowing and feeling are two different things.

Tendrils of ice flowed from his nostrils, enveloping her hand, reminding her horribly of the winter’s breath that flowed from the mouths of Despair demons. Hara was frozen with terror as his eyes began to open and his mouth contorted widely, growing hellish teeth with oddly elongated incisors. He stared at her, forlorn and yet furious at the same time. His horribly contorted mouth opened and an intense chill enveloped her.

“You have failed me,” his corpse muttered in a raspy breath, “You have failed me as you will fail them, as you will fail all things.”

She knew she should do something, say something to extricate herself from this horrible nightmare, tell the demon to leave her be, insist that it couldn’t have her. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out and instead in flowed the demon’s sick, icy breath, filling her insides with sharp pain and ice and misery.

“Yes,” it said, reaching out to grasp her shoulders to bring her closer, seeking to force more of its glacial breath into her mouth, “This is what it feels like to be near you, to be tainted by you. Sick… and cold. You are a disease, a thing that does not belong.”

She remembered herself. Hara reared back and slammed her small fist into its contorted face, prepared to scream in denial of the things it had said about her, half-hearted as her rebuttal might feel.

Instead, her fist made contact with something warm, solid, and angular. She crawled backwards away from whatever she had hit and realized she couldn’t see anything. It was dark. Something warm and wet had filled her eyes and was clouding her gaze, shielding her from whatever fresh horror the Fade had conjured. The frost was gone from her lungs but had enveloped her extremities and her fingers were cold as she wiped the liquid from her eyes. She steeled her mind for whatever shape the demon had taken this time. Had it brought her grandfather back to life so that she might relive his death? Did it intend to make her feel the warmth slowly trickle from his body as he died? She reopened her eyes.

Solas.

His eyes were wide with concern and he held one hand to his jaw, blood blossoming from his lower lip as he regarded her with something like pity, one hand outstretched towards her as her grandfather’s had been earlier. She stared back at him in confusion, brow furrowed. _Why would Solas be in this dream?_ She almost opened her mouth to ask him—or whatever was wearing his face—when she heard the rustle of canvas and Cassandra’s voice.

“Herald!” the Seeker cried, moving towards her, eyes laden with sleep and concern, sword grasped in one hand, “What is the matter? Are we under attack?”

“I…” Hara began, gears shifting in her head as she tried to make sense of the scene before her.

Varric joined the confusion, emerging shirtless from his own tent with Bianca over one shoulder. “What’s going on, Scarecrow? Seeker, are you alright?”

 _Awake_ , she realized with a start, _I’m awake._

“I believe she had a nightmare,” Solas supplied, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his slender hand, moving marginally closer to her as if he’d deemed it safer to approach but was still on his guard.

She felt the blood drain from her face and a pit settle into her stomach. Her throat felt raw when she swallowed. “Fuck,” Hara whispered as reality clicked into place. She’d been screaming in her sleep.

Her hand throbbed.

She’d hit him.

 _FUCK_. Her eyes widened as she looked back and forth between Varric and Cassandra. Their expressions had shifted from alarm to compassion and she felt sick. She couldn’t bear to look at Solas again. She searched for words, something to explain the horrible disruption she’d caused them. She was found wanting and settled for an apology instead.

“I’m sorry,” Hara replied, voice a bit raspy, “I’m fine. Go back to sleep. We’ll be up and headed to Master Dennet’s in just a few hours, so please try to rest while you can,” she implored. She hoped it sounded less pathetic than she felt.

“Are you sure, Herald?” Cassandra asked, her brow furrowed in concern. She looked torn between allowing Hara the dignity of solitude and making an awkward attempt at comforting her. Hara’s stomach flopped again at the thought of the Seeker attempting to impart words of pity or consolation. _Unbearable_.

“I said I was fine,” Hara returned with steel in her voice.

Cassandra’s eyes widened somewhat at her tone, though she nodded her head. “As you wish, Herald,” she turned slowly and walked back to her tent, though she couldn’t resist one last glance back in Hara’s general direction. Varric gave her a lingering look as well before she waved him off impatiently and he returned to his tent, muttering an awkward, “Well, goodnight then…”

She took a deep breath and reoriented herself, taking in the scene with fresh eyes. She’d kicked her bedroll away from the campfire and her blankets were strewn messily about, so she set about reorienting everything, intent to look anywhere and everywhere but at the elven mage who still had her fixed with a concerned gaze. “You should sleep too, Solas,” she said, tucking her blankets back into her bedroll. “You should’ve woken me up for the last watch anyway.” She hoped he’d acquiesce, leave her free to stare at the coals of their campfire, berating herself for this spectacular display of weakness. She remembered how cold she felt and pulled one of the blankets back out and around her shoulders, moving to take a seat by the fire.

Predictably, he did not listen to her.

Solas slowly approached the campfire and took a seat directly across from her. He said nothing, but the tension in the air was palpable. She steeled herself for whatever was coming. She heard Solas’ intake of breath, knew he was preparing to say something that would make most people feel better but would only add to her discomfort.

“I’m sorry to you, too,” she said, flicking her gaze from the campfire to his face, her amber eyes locking with his blue. _Better this than that,_ she thought. She couldn’t rationalize scorn over pity at the moment, couldn’t muster the energy to think of something witty or rude or irritating. And truly, she was sorry for hitting him. This time, anyway.

He looked genuinely surprised at her apology and his hand idly wandered back to his jaw, long fingers searching along the edge of his lip, feeling out the cut she’d inflicted when she’d punched him in the grips of her nightmare. She stared in amazement as the blue glow of his magic knit the skin back together and he was left with nothing but a bloody streak across the corner of his mouth. He smiled slightly. “It was nothing,” he replied.

“It was,” she said quietly, her eyes drawn back to the lingering embers of their fire, images of the nightmare flashing before her eyes. Her grandfather…

“Would you like to talk about something?” He asked quietly, his eyes searching her face.

“What?” Hara asked, brow furrowed in confusion as she returned his gaze.

“Would you like to talk about something?” Solas repeated patiently. “It seems your mind is elsewhere and it might help to focus on something in the here and now.”

“I’m not a child, Solas,” she said irritably as she wrapped her blanket tighter around her, willing her hands to warm. She tried rubbing them together, seeking some heat in the friction, but was unsuccessful. She stuffed them between her legs instead. Her braid had come undone—had she been tossing and turning, too?—and her hair stuck out in odd angles. She mustered what she hoped was a foreboding glare.

“I hadn’t realized,” he returned easily, a small smile spreading across his lips, taking in the mess of her hair. What had he called it earlier? _A nest_.

Hara couldn’t help the small smile that spread across her face, and in that moment, she appreciated him. He seemed to read her need for mirth to overcome misery and had set himself up to be a target for her sharp tongue.

“Fine, _hahren_ ,” she responded, “Perhaps you can tell me about yourself. I’ve gotten tales of Kirkwall from Varric and Nevarra from Cassandra, but I’m not sure I know anything of note about you. I am sure we could talk for hours—nay, _days_ , about the innumerable years you’ve lived,” she teased.

He looked alarmed for a fraction of a second before he wrestled his gaze into an impassive look. “Why?”

“You’re an apostate, yet you risked your freedom to help the Inquisition,” Hara replied. “And besides, you offered.” She wondered if she had offended him to the point he'd revoke his offer.

“Not the wisest course of action when framed that way,” Solas finally responded, amusement coloring his voice and a small smile playing across the corner of his mouth, drawing her gaze.

She wasn’t sure if he meant joining the Inquisition or offering to talk with her. She almost asked him to clarify before she noticed the smudge of red dragged across his lower lip. Hara’s hand twitched suddenly and she narrowly resisted the urge to wet her thumb with her tongue and wipe the bloodstain from his corner of his mouth. She’d done the same thing countless times with grubby children in the alienage—less so once she’d joined Clan Lavellan, but it was still a reactionary habit. She was lost in thought again, remembering the little ones she'd left behind the day Keeper Deshanna had collected her from the alienage. One child, Ellana, had cried so intensely...

“What would you know of me?” Solas asked, his question returning her to the present moment, as if realizing she needed to be tethered to something and deciding he could grant her an anchor. Hara was torn between suspicion, irritation, and gratitude at his kindness and wondered what he might enjoy talking about. She settled on what she considered to be a safe bet.

“What made you start studying the Fade?” Hara replied, genuinely curious about what anyone might want with the horrible place.

“I grew up in a village to the north,” he began, a smile stretched across his mouth, “There was little to interest a young man, especially one gifted with magic. But as I slept, spirits of the Fade showed me glimpses of wonders I had never imagined. I treasured my dreams. Being awake, out of the Fade, became troublesome.” He trailed off thoughtfully.

Hara considered this for a long moment. Her teeth worried at her lower lip as she thought about the prospect of the Fade as an enjoyable, even wondrous destination, something filled with spirits who were benevolent rather than terrifying. She decided to risk a vulnerable avenue of conversation. Perhaps he might have something to share with her that would help her avoid the malevolent spirits that seemed to haunt her dreams.

“It’s not like that for me,” Hara responded, continuing to worry at her lower lip. “In fact, I'd say we're diametrically opposed. Being asleep, in the Fade, is troublesome.”

“Tell me more,” Solas responded, leaning towards her across the campfire, his gaze bordering on intense.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever had a… treasured dream,” she replied, searching for the right words, trying to make sense of the disparate meanings they both attached to the same place, “Or if I have, I can’t remember because it was so long ago. Are spirits responsible for dreams?”

His eyes widened as if he hadn’t expected her to ask such a question. She almost backpedaled, wondering if this was a stupid thing to say.

“Responsible, no,” Solas responded slowly, as if weighing his words, “The Fade both reflects the world around it and is limited by our imaginations. One dreams in one’s own experiences coupled with the influence of the surrounding environment.”

“Can one learn to control their dreaming?” Hara asked, “To make decisions to shape the Fade how they’d prefer it to be?”

“Yes,” Solas replied, excitement beginning to color his voice. Hara’s eyes widened a bit in surprise; she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Solas truly excited about anything. “I learned how to control my dreams with full consciousness in my efforts to explore the Fade. I have seen many wondrous things, formed lasting friendships with spirits of Wisdom and Purpose. Once, I met a rare spirit of Compassion...” He trailed off as if suddenly lost in thought. 

“I know when I'm in the Fade, but can't seem to do anything about it. The spirits I typically encounter are... less than enjoyable company. I’m not sure I’ve ever met any of these alleged benevolent spirits you speak of,” Hara responded wryly. “Though if what you’re saying about experiences and expectations is true, I must be in short supply of compassion and wisdom.”

“Or unused to experiencing it,” Solas replied softly.

They continued their conversation until the sun rose the next morning, Solas sharing stories of areas he’d explored in the Fade, ancient memories he had seen; he insisted that as she experienced more of life, her experiences in the Fade would shift to reflect a new perspective. As they prepared to make contact with Dennet the following morning, she was tired but more at peace. Perhaps there was some hope for her.

 _Strange_ , she thought, _to find it in him._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh ho, two posts in one day!
> 
> So now is probably as good a time as any to formally thank anyone reading who finds this story enjoyable. I haven't written anything for pleasure in almost a decade (I am an academic writer), so I'm a bit rusty but having lots of fun nevertheless. I hope you like Hara as much as I do, and thanks for your patience through a few depressing chapters as I build her backstory.
> 
> This one is pure fluff: Brought to you by peach liqueur and mild irritation that you couldn't drink any of the alcohol you found in-game.

Varric was cheating.

She said as much. “Varric,” Hara began in mock seriousness, furrowing her brow intensely at him, her mouth downturned in a caricature of a disapproving frown she did not truly mean. “You are _cheating_.”

Hara knew it, but she couldn’t play Wicked Grace well enough to prove it. Or maybe she was drunk and imagining things. That’s what Varric had kept insisting, anyway, even as he continued to ply her with alcohol from some horrible concoction simply labeled _Carnal, 8:69 Blessed_ that Master Dennet awarded them with much ceremony after they’d managed to eliminate the pack of demon-possessed wolves his wife, Elaina, had been concerned about.

“Here, Inquisition,” he’d said, eyes twinkling with amusement as he labeled her an entire organization, “You earned it.” Tomorrow, they’d be scouting locations for watch towers at the insistence of his farmhand, Bran, so if they hadn’t earned it properly today, Hara figured that surely they’d have done so tomorrow.

They had made it to Dennet’s farm and secured his _promise_ of horses but, as in all things, had several other promises to fulfill before he would pledge his stables to the Inquisition. So far all she had to show for the varied and often dangerous work they’d done around the horsemaster’s farm was a stable of purely theoretical horses and a particularly hefty bottle of liqueur. Hara could hardly blame the man, of course, but Andraste’s ass, it had been a struggle to meet the terms of their alliance.

So, for now, she was playing cards (badly) and drinking (enthusiastically) with Varric. Even Solas had accepted a glass or two (or was it three? Hara was losing count) of the oddly sweet Orlesian liqueur and was now watching them play with a genuinely amused look on his face. He had politely declined to be included in their game; Varric had protested but Hara simply figured it meant she had one less person to lose against.

Cassandra had retired to one of Master Dennet’s cabins, flushed and irritated after Varric described Dennet’s proffered liqueur to her. “It’s said to _enhance sensation_ , Seeker,” he began darkly, eyes shifting this way and that, taking in the surroundings of Dennet’s barn where they had been passing the night before intending to retire to the spare cabin they’d been lent on the horsemaster's farm. The dwarf worked his jaw as if he were about to share some truly uncouth secret with Cassandra. He slowly lifted the bottle to show her an erotically carved peach pit embedded into the bottom. Cassandra’s eyes had widened and she’d blushed more intensely than Hara could ever remember seeing her blush before. The Seeker was so red she looked positively aflame, such a violent shade of crimson that Hara wondered (not for the first time) if this proclivity was bad for her health.

Cassandra had promptly thrown their cast iron skillet at the dwarf’s head and stormed off towards their cabin for the evening, ignoring Varric’s feeble protests of “Chantry brutality” and leaving the rest of the party to their devices in the stable. It had been a truly fantastic evening and Hara felt more relaxed and at ease than she had in months, maybe even in years… Even if she were losing badly at cards. They weren’t playing for gold and Hara had nothing of value to bet anyhow, so no harm done, she supposed.

She pushed a particularly fat elfroot leaf into their makeshift ‘pot,’ upping the ante. “You _do_ cheat.”

“I do not, Scarecrow,” Varric replied with a smirk as he refilled her glass for the fifth time and raised her ‘bet’ three onions they’d dug up outside Dennet’s barn but hadn’t used in their dinner. “You have a poor memory for cards. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“No,” she grinned, sipping at the oddly sweet yet bitter liquid, relishing the sensation of it burning down her throat, “Though surely I wouldn’t remember if they had.” She snickered at her own joke.

Varric’s smile had simply widened, though to her surprise, Solas laughed rather openly. Hara found herself truly enjoying the sound; she heard him chuckle in amusement on occasion, but unrestrained laughs were as rare as crystal grace. She regarded him thoughtfully, eyes traveling across his face and to the glass of amber liquid in his hand. He held it lazily albeit elegantly in his hand, fingers curved gracefully around theglass Dennet had lent them. Wordlessly, she raised her own glass and clinked it against his. He looked a bit surprised, taken aback by her impromptu nonverbal toast, but gave her a rather warm—well, warm for Solas—smile nevertheless.

Hara decided she liked him when he was drinking.

“You’re up, Scarecrow,” Varric said, waving his glass in front of her face to draw her attention. She blinked intelligently and looked at the dwarf seated across from her. He was looking at her with a mixture of amusement and impatience.

“What? Oh, right!” She realized it was her turn. Had she been looking at Solas that long? Maybe the alcohol was going to her head. She quickly played a pair of Serpents, a flush spreading across her cheeks.

Varric drew the next card and (mercifully) the Angel of Death appeared, signaling the final round of the game. The dwarf smiled cockily as he readied himself to show his cards, fanning his hand out in front of her to demonstrate a spectacular array of Songs.

“Four Songs!” Hara cried in horror, “You can’t have FOUR Songs! I discarded one earlier!”

“There’s that memory of yours again, Scarecrow,” Varric tapped the side of his head and grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkled in mirth. “Are you sure that glowing shit on your hand hasn’t affected your recall?”

“Don’t make me get the skillet, Varric,” Hara admonished threateningly, though her wide smile softened her chastisement.

The dwarf leaned forward and scooped up their “pot” of herbal scraps and foraged root vegetables with all the showmanship of a king counting his jewels. He smiled cockily and Hara sighed in exasperation, turning to Solas with a beseeching look.

“You play him this time, okay?” Hara implored, “Either I am spectacularly bad at this game or I need less alcohol. Or more,” she practically whined, realizing her fifth cup was nigh on empty.

“What you need…” Solas began slowly.

He leaned closer to her, so close that she could smell the pine of his soap and something she imagined was uniquely him. Parchment, elfroot, and earth. Leather and… peach, she supposed, from the alcohol. Hara froze, completely surprised by their proximity and a bit unnerved at his closeness, her breath hitching in her throat. He continued to lean across her and over to the dwarf who was watching them both with an intense expression. Solas reached right into the coat pocket Varric’s over jacket; he’d slung it on the chair behind him before he dealt their first hand, claiming he was overheated from the alcohol. Solas removed something from the dwarf’s coat and leaned back towards her, his face still a bit closer to hers than would be strictly comfortable, even if they hadn’t been drinking together all evening.

“…Is an extra set of cards.”

He fanned out an almost full deck of cards in front of her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. She felt herself get sucked in to his gaze. Had his eyes always been so impossibly blue? She wondered at the contrast of his auburn eyebrows and idly imagined him with hair. She decided she liked him better this way, that he was unsuited to anything but the austere, attractive baldness of his head.

She realized she was staring again. _Too much Carnal, not enough Blessed_ she thought wryly. She returned her gaze to the weakly protesting dwarf seated across from her.

“I don’t know how that got there!” He insisted without much conviction, shaking his head and grinning widely.

Hara wasn’t angry with him in the slightest, rather more amused and impressed by his deft sleight of hand—and equally curious as to how Solas had picked up on it while she had been, for the most part, completely ignorant—but she couldn’t resist torturing the dwarf a bit. She lowered her voice, willing it to assume a sort of broken quality, furrowed her brow in what she hoped resembled an expression of deepest betrayal.

“Varric, I…” Hara started, pausing for dramatic effect as she willed her voice to crack, “I _trusted_ you…”

Varric looked deeply chagrined and reached out to her with both hands, enclosing her marked palm between his hands in a demonstration of apology. Hara lowered her head, the loose strands of her long, straight hair shielding her face from the dwarf’s gaze. She kept the right side of her face oriented towards him so that the strawberry curtain faced him rather than the closely cropped left side. She bit her lip, hard, willing away the laughter that threatened to bubble up and spill from her traitorous mouth. Her shoulders began to shake with the effort of stifling the laughter and it seemed Varric thought she was… crying.

“Come on, Scarecrow, don’t _cry_ ,” the dwarf implored, “I’m sorry, it was just a game, I didn’t know you’d be—“ He reached up to brush the hair from her face and he gazed at her with shame-filled eyes. His expression morphed rapidly into one of irritation, then unbridled amusement as he realized she was biting back laughter rather than tears, her face turning red with the effort.

Hara laughed, loud and long, unable to contain herself any longer.

“…Such a good actress,” Varric finished his previous sentence, shaking his head and chuckling along with her.

“I’m a terrible actress,” Hara insisted, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. “You’ve just got an incredibly guilty conscience.”

Varric looked to Solas and smirked, shaking his head. “Can’t believe you caught me there, Chuckles,” he said, “Been a long time since anyone called me out for cheating at cards. What tipped me?”

Solas smiled, a glint of amusement in his eyes—and something sharper, Hara was sure.

“Let me see if I can recall the turn of phrase you used in Haven, Master Tethras, as you speculated about the Herald’s origins. I believe you were concerned about duplicity…” He looked as if he were searching for the right words, though Hara thought he was intentionally building tension into their conversation.

“Ah, yes,” Solas began, his tone almost dangerously smooth. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help! I can't stop writing!
> 
> This one has a bit of Solas POV - I was unsure about including it, so please let me know if you think it's horrible or doesn't fit with the characterization thus far. I'm less concerned about it feeling purely canon than it just being... awful, I suppose. 
> 
> Happy reading! Thanks for being here!

They’d been in the Hinterlands for over a month now and even Cassandra, ever the realist, seemed cheered by their progress. Once they had secured Dennet’s stable, they were able to move much more quickly in their efforts to stabilize their region, as could the Inquisition’s soldiers and scouts.

They’d established several camps, ferreted out and eliminated the apostates in Witchwood and the Templar encampment to the West, found a number of supply caches for Whittle, cleared the East Road of bandits, and fed more hungry mouths than she’d ever hoped they could.

Hara had been at the forefront of it all, guiding, directing, sometimes pleading, pushing her companions to do more, even as the Seeker had tried to pull them back to Haven to regroup. She had a point; they needed to assess the situation with the Ambassador to determine whether they had garnered enough influence to approach the Chantry in Val Royeaux. Hara knew they would need to return soon, but she was loathe to leave anyone vulnerable when she knew they could still be useful in some way. She’d sent letters to the Spymaster and the Ambassador begging off their return— _yes, I know it’s important to approach to Chantry, but I believe it is more important to help those directly impacted by the war here_. To her surprise, they’d agreed. 

As for Hara, she was exhausted, but cautiously optimistic. She had seen the satisfaction on the refugees’ faces and knew her companions approved of the work they were doing; she could practically feel the influence they’d manage to build in the name of the Inquisition in the comparatively short time they’d been deployed to the area. Josephine had sent missives describing a small influx of financial support and enthusiastic recruits they’d received as commoners and nobles alike got word of the work the Inquisition was doing to restore order in the Hinterlands. She might’ve thought to celebrate if she’d had the energy.

She still wasn’t sleeping.

After they’d scouted the area around Dennet’s farm and sent missives back to Haven with a request to build watchtowers in strategic locations to keep the King’s Road safe, they had returned to the Crossroads to check in on the recovery efforts there. Hara wanted to ensure the refugees were still receiving assistance from the Inquisition’s soldiers and scouts, to determine if there was anything more she could do to make their lives even marginally easier after all the upheaval they’d been through. Hara was pleased that things had improved considerably in their almost two week absence, though there was still plenty of work to do.

 Varric told tales to hearten refugees, assisted with hunting efforts, and had even begun to train a few youngsters from the Crossroads in archery (albeit with the Inquisition’s practice bows rather than sophisticated machines like Bianca - Hara was sure he’d never abide sticky fingers on his prized crossbow).

Solas healed countless wounds, had shown the refugees how to mix simple healing potions and create poultices that would stave off infections. It was a talent Hara hadn’t known he’d possessed. Cassandra helped the Inquisition soldiers coordinate patrols, showed young men and women how to swing a sword competently and hold a shield without hiding behind it, to stand up for themselves against mages and Templars and bandits alike. Judging by Mother Giselle’s grateful praise and the somewhat brightened spirits in the Crossroads, the Inquisition had begun to gain a solid foothold in the Hinterlands. The Mother had headed for Haven, convinced the region had stabilized enough for her to answer the Inquisition’s call for assistance with the Chantry.

Presently they were camped near Dwarfson’s Pass, preparing to make contact with a cult lead by someone named Speaker Anais at the behest of a refugee who’s wife had fallen ill with a breathing sickness. He’d asked her to make contact with his son who had joined the cult and, irritably, was the only one who knew how to craft the potion that could alleviate the wife’s difficulties. Hara’s heart had wrenched when he’d heard his plea— _she gets sick when the weather is foul, can’t breathe, like cobwebs in her lungs._ It brought to mind images from her childhood she’d rather not relive. 

She sat by the fire, winding and unwinding her thick braid, mesmerized by the flames and only marginally in contact with reality, idly chewing her lip. She was stewing about how to handle approaching the cult and hadn’t settled on a strategy. It was easier to think aloud, but the rest of her companions had retired for the evening, leaving her with the third watch, darkness thick around her, stars bright above.

She heard the rustling sound of canvas that indicated a tent opening behind her. Her eyes idly sought the moons and she noticed a pink tinge beginning to color the edges of the sky. She realized she’d forgotten to wake Solas for his shift. Thankfully, she’d stopped jumping around him. For the most part, anyway. 

“Herald,” Solas called in simple greeting, coming to sit beside her in front of the campfire. Things had grown considerably less antagonistic between them over the past few weeks—the sun had set nine times since she’d last cursed his name or he’d chided her for her irresponsibility, irrationality, limited perspective, lack of knowledge of the Fade, and so on. Not that she was counting. 

They still traded barbs, but with less bite, more in jest than with the intention to wound. Truthfully, she still loved to antagonize him and expected he drew some kind of pleasure in it as well, although he’d refrained from commenting on her “Dalish heritage” since she’d told him to _go fuck himself_ so eloquently on their fourth day in the Hinterlands. She wondered if this was intentional, if he’d softened his ribbing to accommodate her comfort level, but wasn’t about to ask him.

“Hmm,” she replied. Noncommittal, neither an invitation or a dismissal. 

“You are not sleeping,” Solas finally remarked.

Hara turned to face him and knew he was assessing the ever-deepening circles underneath her eyes, the sunburnt bridge of her nose she knew would later peel and give rise to an abundance of new freckles; she was sure she looked at least as haggard as she felt.

“Astute,” she said in a bored tone, though her lips twitched into a half-smile.

She searched his face as well and noted a weariness there. The length of this deployment was wearing on them all, it seemed, and not even “restorative contact with the Fade” made Solas immune to the exhaustion they were all beginning to feel. Truthfully, she hadn’t paid much attention to how he’d looked as they’d put out fires across the Hinterlands, both literally and figuratively, unless she counted the night she’d drank that infernal peach liqueur Dennet had given them in thanks. She didn’t. Oddly, she found herself struck by how he looked in the campfire, firelight accentuating the strength of his jaw, the cleft of his chin, a scar she hadn’t noticed above one brow. Her face colored lightly as she realized he was quite handsome.

“Did you see it in the Fade, _hahren_?” She weakly wiggled her fingers at him as she’d done a few weeks ago, too tired to put much effort into her goading but unable to resist it in its entirety.

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “You are a liability when exhausted,” he supplied, his eyes lingering on the dark circles underneath her eyes. She was a bit surprised he’d responded without teasing and frowned in his general direction.

“I’m not doing it on purpose, you know,” Hara replied. “It’s not as if I’m a child begging off of bedtime.”

 Solas’ frown deepened and Hara steeled herself for a lecture. Surprisingly, it wasn’t what she got.

“What is it that troubles you so?” Solas asked softly. “You have done much good here, but it never seems…” He trailed off quietly, as if searching for right word.

“Enough?” Hara asked, eyebrows creeping up her forehead, confused by his praise and this line of questioning. Although she and Solas had been working together more effectively—and less antagonistically—they had never discussed their progress in the Hinterlands. She’d hashed through logistics and situations with Cassandra plenty of times, and even Varric occasionally offered words of advice, but Solas seemed to remain on the periphery of these conversations. She could sometimes read his approval or dissatisfaction in the tone of his voice, the lines of his mouth, the furrow of his brow… now that she reflected on it, perhaps she spent more time considering Solas than she’d realized.

She found the realization irritating. Hara pursed her lips together and gazed into the fire with increased concentration, as if she were determined to burn the thought out of her head, winding and unwinding the sections of her braid with a renewed intensity. 

She barely strangled back a yell as a pair of hands reached up to grasp her own. Solas had reached out to her, held her cold hands in his, willing her to drop the offending plait she’d been worrying with. “It is almost nauseating to watch you do that with such speed,” Solas admonished quietly, though there was some mirth in his voice.

She gave him a sheepish look, face coloring at the contact between them. She could count on one hand the number of times someone had touched her since she’d awoken marked in Haven. Cassandra, as she shoved her roughly down the mountain path. Solas, as he’d gripped her wrist and bade her to seal the first rift she’d ever encountered. Cassandra again, oddly mesmerized with her mess of hair one evening after she’d bathed in the river. And finally, Varric, grasping her hand in apology and moving her hair out of the way as she feigned sadness at the “discovery” of his duplicitous nature the night they’d played Wicked Grace.

How long had it been before that? Her heart wrenched strangely as she realized she could not remember. Some time with Clan Lavellan, surely, but by whom? Perhaps the keeper had grasped her shoulder as she bade her goodbye on her road to the Conclave, but she couldn’t say for certain. No one had touched her with any frequency since her grandfather passed.

* * * 

Solas saw her lost in thought again, even as he held her small, cold hands in his own. He couldn’t say where she went so often, but his curiosity practically screamed at him to follow. She was incredibly irritating, not at all forthcoming about her past, childish, even, _nothing more than a shadow of a shadow,_ though he’d grown to tolerate her in the past weeks as he’d observed her compassionate nature, watched make selfless decision after selfless decision in the Inquisition’s name. She seemed to want to help, deeply, and it made him heartsick with shame as he considered her efforts to rectify his mistake, to save a world he would only later destroy to rebuild the ashes of Elvhenan.

When she’d asked him about the relationships between spirits and dreaming, he had to admit his interest had been piqued. He hadn’t expected any such questions from her, so limited were the Dalish in their understanding of the Fade, _of anything, really_ , and she was not even a mage. He had suspected the nightmares even before she’d woken screaming weeks ago, hitting him with an intensity he had not expected as he tried to wake her from the other side. 

He’d tried to watch her in the Fade a few times since but couldn’t bring himself to indulge in such a voyeuristic pastime, even if he tried to rationalize it as a strategy to help her overcome the demons that plagued her. Solas wasn’t convinced he couldn’t reclaim the Anchor and did not want any unwise attachment clouding his judgment. _Better to leave her to her horrors_ , he rationalized, even as the pit of shame and guilt inside him grew. If he had to kill her to reclaim it, he would have to do so without hesitation. Any form of closeness was… unwise.

He saw her cheeks begin to color, the golden branches of her vallaslin starkly visible in the fading moonlight and the pallor of her skin, peppered with numerous freckles, one particularly distracting in the bow of her lips. Even sunburned, Hara seemed truly drained. He dropped her hands abruptly and, before he could convince himself otherwise, pressed forward with a path of conversation he’d resolved to avoid.

“Are your dreams still troubling you?” He asked, trying to keep his voice academic rather than friendly. He’d said she was a liability when she was exhausted, and this was technically true, so perhaps she’d see no more than a healer’s preoccupation in the question.

The line of her mouth hardened and she seemed ready to deny it. Before she could, he continued. “As one who has studied the Fade extensively, there are perhaps some things I could teach you to make the dreams more… bearable.” What had she called the demons that haunted her? “And help you avoid, ah… _less than enjoyable company_.” That was it, he was sure.

He watched her worry at her lower lip again. It was a terrible habit of hers, and more often than not, the thick flesh seemed ready to split underneath her anxious ministrations. It was also horribly distracting.

“That might be… helpful,” she finished awkwardly, finally meeting his gaze with her large, amber eyes. He hadn’t noticed the odd flecks of blue around the center of her iris before now, strangely accentuated in the dying campfire and waning moonlight. “But for now, we have work to do, starting with several strong cups of tea. It is too late—or too early—for whiskey and I need something to steel my nerves if I’m going to deal with fucking cultists today.” 

She stood abruptly and busied herself around the campsite.  He watched her flit back and forth between her tent, their supply of rations, and the campfire, readying herself for a venture she was admittedly less than keen to undertake.

He would never admit to being mesmerized.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who has two thumbs and is ready to GTFO of the Hinterlands for a while? This girl! 
> 
> Thanks SO much for reading, y'all. I can't tell you how excited I get when I see someone leave kudos or a comment :-) Please know that I read every single one (and may or may not obsessively check throughout the day to see if there are more).

“I know you,” a woman Hara presumed was Speaker Anais called in abrupt greeting as they approached Winterwatch tower later that same morning. “They call you the Herald of Andraste for what you did at Haven.” The Speaker gave Hara a disgruntled look, eyes lingering on her pointed ears and vallaslin as if she were beholding something unnatural or unpleasant.

Hara stared back, her jaw working in irritation as she thought of the refugee’s wife, sick, unable to breathe, while this woman took in the shape of her ears and seemed to find her wanting. She said nothing.

“Are you?” Anais continued. “The Maker has not told me.”

“No,” Hara replied irritably, “I’m nothing of the sort, but I am here to help. There’s a man here, Hyndel, I think his name is, and his mother—“

“As I expected,” Anais replied in a haughty tone. “I knew the stories of you closing rifts were nothing more than idle gossip at best, blind heresy at worst.” 

“No, I _can_ close the rifts,” Hara explained, her patience flagging considerably at this point, “I just need to speak with Hyndel—“

“Then prove it,” Anais replied, irritation coloring her voice, as if she knew Hara was nothing more than an imposter who was wasting her time. “Show me that the rifts bend to your will, the will of the Maker. Show me the power you wield.”

“I’m about to show you into a shallow grave,” Hara practically growled, all semblance of composure evaporating as she gathered the front of the Speaker’s robes into her hand and jerked her towards her, snarling up into the taller woman’s face.

“Herald!” Cassandra exclaimed, eyes widened in shock, moving forward to grasp Hara’s hand and forcing her to let the Speaker go. “If proof is what she requires, that is given easily enough.” Hara took a deep, shuddering breath and clenched her jaw so hard she heard her teeth grind together. Cassandra was probably better suited to handling this, so she chose to remain quiet, allowing the Seeker to guide the conversation from this point forward. It was likely to end in bloodshed—at the very least, a swiftly broken nose—if Hara continued.

“This cult,” Cassandra continued, eyes still trained uneasily on Hara as if expecting her to lunge forward again at any moment. She kept one hand steadied on Hara’s arm, a physical reminder to keep her distance. “What are you doing out here? What is it you think is happening?”

“The Chantry has fallen and shown its imperfection in doing so,” Anais continued, her tone still haughty but her gaze somewhat cowed at Hara’s sudden propensity for violence, “The Chant of Light was a lie. It was arrogance to think that mortal lips could frame the Maker’s will, and so we wait in silence.”

At that admission, Cassandra looked ready to pummel the woman as well. Varric and Solas were watching the interaction behind them with intensity, though they had yet to intervene. Cassandra took a similarly deep breath and Hara figured she was steeling herself, preparing to hear more bullshit. She seemed to deem it important to give the Speaker time to spin her story, as if she somehow knew that’s what it would take to access Winterwatch and help the misguided people within.

“The Maker has opened the sky,” Anais continued, “Soon he will call His chosen back to the Golden City.”

Hara almost offered to send the Speaker there herself, but managed to bite her tongue.

“I see,” Cassandra offered carefully. “Perhaps you will allow us access so that we may demonstrate the Heral—“

Hara gave her a sharp look, brows furrowed deeply, accentuating the still-fresh scar above her left eye. Was Cassandra _seriously_ about to proclaim her the Herald of Andraste after she had just told this infuriating woman she wasn’t?

“Ahh, the _Inquisition’s_ ability to seal the rifts,” Cassandra finished awkwardly.

Anais was still regarding her with outright suspicion and thinly veiled disgust, but seemed to consider the request. Her gaze flicked to the Seeker, taking in her serious expression, the attractive scar across her jaw. Whatever Anais saw there seemed to be more pleasing than whatever she’d found when she’d gazed at Hara. “So be it,” the Speaker finally said, gesturing to an armored man nearby to open the gates to Winterwatch. 

Hara breathed a sigh of relief, thankful for Cassandra’s intervention, even if she’d stumbled her way through it a bit. _Better than crashing through like a fucking druffalo_ , she thought to herself, shaking her head slightly as she and her companions pushed their way past Speaker Anais and into the cultist stronghold.

“Maker’s balls,” Varric muttered quietly, one hand resting uneasily on Bianca, fingers worrying her grip absentmindedly, “What was all that about?”

Solas attempted to shed some insight into the incredible bout of stupidity they’d just witnessed. “I suppose it only natural that some would turn to worshipping the Breach…” he began, and Hara turned toward him impatiently, ready to argue that surely only someone colossally stupid could possibly believe such a thing. “If only in hopes of appeasing it,” he finished.

Well. Perhaps he had a point.

Hara regarded the keep. It was… surprisingly functional, but still reeked of fear. She wondered at some of the fancily dressed people milling about. Humans, mostly, she noted wryly, though she did observe a few frail elven faces. They seemed to scurry back and forth quickly, practically unseen in the bustle around the refuge. _Servants_ , she thought bitterly. It seemed these cultists were little more than human nobles who had placed their faith in something—and someone—monumentally idiotic. Clearly, they’d dragged their servants with them. She wondered how the refugee’s son fit here. The refugee was clearly elven, though perhaps his wife was human and their son could pass for one as well. She felt her irritation rise as she thought of him running off to join a cult, pretending he was someone he was not, hastily severing himself from the womb that had borne him.

She had to stop thinking about it or else she’d be likely to pummel the man as soon as she met him. Idly, she wished for more sleep. She might be marginally less inclined to violence if she’d gotten more than a few stolen hours over the past few days. She felt dead on her feet, but she was determined to see this through. Hara realized the intensity of her desire to be helpful to this one particular refugee was suspicious; both Varric and Solas had gently suggested she leave this task to one of the Inquisition’s scouts, asked whether she thought it were truly necessary to do this last kindness in person before they withdrew to Haven to reassess the situation with the Chantry.

Cassandra had practically commanded her to delegate the task, but she’d made some excuse, suggested that if this cult were approached by the “Herald of Andraste”—she spat out the title bitterly, eyes rolling all the while—perhaps they would be more inclined to listen, to help the refugees as they returned to Haven to prepare to address the Chantry. Cassandra bought it, of course. It was sound enough logic, Hara rationalized, that it would keep them from asking more pointed questions.

Hara still hadn’t divulged any meaningful information about her past—not Wycome, not the alienage, and most certainly not her grandfather—so she was hardly ready to share the similarities between him and this poor, nameless woman she was determined to rescue from a similar fate.

As they wandered further into the encampment, Hara’s eyes caught the telltale, sickly green swirl of a rift, situated in an alcove behind the keep’s courtyard. The magic on her palm crackled to life and she felt a familiar rush of nausea mixed with a buzz of foreign power as she tentatively approached the rift, her companions behind her. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Hara said flatly, turning to face Varric, Cassandra, and Solas behind her. “They _locked themselves in_ … With a rift.”

“People rarely make good decisions when they’re scared shitless,” Varric supplied. 

“Did she look scared to you?” Hara snapped, thinking about the disdainful and almost bored expression on Speaker Anais’ face.

“There will be time for bickering once we have sealed this rift,” Cassandra pressed, “Come, let us do what we came here to do.”

For a short moment, Hara wondered if these people were worth saving. It passed. She took a deep breath and steeled herself to face the demons that would soon erupt from the rift.

“Ready?” She asked her companions, receiving a chorus of nods. Hara steeled herself, took a deep breath, and she and Cassandra charged forward just as it began to pull demons through to the other side.

She felt Solas’ barrier wrap tightly around her as a lesser terror demon appeared in front of her, its horrifying scream threatening to send her into a panic. She grit her teeth together and delivered a might blow to the center of its oddly proportioned body, knocking it to the ground near Cassandra. Varric shot a volley of arrows into another terror demon’s many-eyed face, narrowly drawing its attention away from Solas before it reached him, subsequently disappearing into the shadows.

Cassandra let out a war cry, drawing the attention of two terrors, readying her shield to bash against one’s disproportioned body before slashing expertly at another. While the demons were distracted, Hara extended her marked hand and felt a familiar lurch in her stomach as the magic in her palm connected with the rift, disrupting its magic and stunning the terrors that surrounded them. She hefted her axe and divested a nearby terror of its oddly shaped head with a satisfying sound, Solas’ winter’s grasp having frozen it into place beside her. It shattered into tiny shards before its essence returned to the Fade rift in front of her.

Demons defeated, Hara threw her hand back out, gritting her teeth and willing the Fade rift to close. It made a loud noise, something akin to a door slamming shut; she stumbled backwards as the magic on her palm disconnected, leaving nothing but still air where the rift had once been.

She took a deep breath and wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “Alright, everyone?”

Her eyes traveled over each of her companions, inspecting them for injuries. It seemed everyone had escaped from the battle unscathed and Hara grinned, pleased that their team had become so proficient at fighting together that they could anticipate one another’s needs.

“We’re all fine, Scarecrow,” Varric confirmed, patting Bianca appreciatively 

“Excellent,” she said, sliding the hilt of her axe through the rungs of its metal holster on her back, turning to face the courtyard. Her happiness was short-lived as she noted Speaker Anais rushing towards their group. She noted many human nobles had gathered near the edge of the courtyard, seemingly having watched their battle and her sealing of the rift; they fell to their knees in worship and Hara bit back a wave of nausea, remembering the scene that had greeted her when she awoke in Haven after closing the rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes as Anais reached them.

“Maker’s tears! I was a fool to have doubted you,” Anais exclaimed, a breathy quality to her voice, “How may we serve you, Herald of Andraste?”

“Help the refugees in the Crossroads. Share your resources, take care of one another,” Hara said, unable to keep the hostility from her voice. There was nothing so untrustworthy as a fair-weather friend. “It’s what you should’ve been doing all along,” she finished frostily.

“As you wish, Herald of Andraste. When the Maker calls you to your great purpose, I hope you will remember our help,” Anais replied, lowering her head in apparent submission. 

 _Of course_ , Hara thought with annoyance, _Looking to gain even in this._ She rolled her eyes spectacularly and strode away from Speaker Anais, eager to find the refugee’s son and accomplish what she came here to do. Her eyes roved around the courtyard, searching for someone who might know of Hyndel. _Preferably elven_ , she decided, not keen to endure any more looks of suspicion—or beatification—than she had already received.

“Excuse me, miss. I hate to bother, but I’m looking for a man named Hyndel,” Hara said, reluctantly stopping a young elven girl carrying a basket of laundry practically twice her size, “Do you know of him?”

The girl looked to be no more than twelve years of age, Hara thought, as she regarded her bare face, pale, devoid of vallaslin, and framed by thick dark eyebrows. Her bright blue eyes reminded her of how the sky had looked before the breach had stained it sickly green. _So young,_ she thought. Her youth made Hara realize she hadn’t encountered many children in the Hinterlands, even fewer in Haven. Her heart contracted painfully in her chest as she considered where they’d all gone. _Not where. Just gone._

“Yes ser,” the girl replied, gesturing to a set of stairs leading upwards into the left half of the keep with her chin, hands full as they were. “He mixes potions for some of the masters,” she said, more than a touch of bitterness in her voice. “He’s often in that part of the keep.”

“Ma serannas, da’len,” Hara said warmly, the corner of her eyes crinkling as she bowed her head in thanks. The girl’s eyes widened, she rushed a quick “Yes ser,” and practically sprinted away from their group, cheeks coloring brightly as she hurried away.

Hara chewed at her lower lip as she considered the girl’s hasty exit, wondering if she’d said or done something wrong, if she had frightened the child in some way. Perhaps her use of Elvhen had confused her? After a decade with Clan Lavellan, it had become a habit to slip the familiar phrases into her conversations in Common; it seemed to make her clanmates marginally more comfortable with her, all the better to distinguish her from the “flat eared child” they’d rescued the alienage. Varric seemed to read her disquiet on her face.

“I bet you have that effect on all the girls, Scarecrow,” Varric grinned, elbowing her a bit, “A title like Herald of Andraste’s gotta win you a few admirers at least.” 

Hara rolled her eyes. Perhaps he was right. Maybe it was the (woefully inaccurate) title.

“Come on!” Varric continued, his eyes shining with mirth, “At least it’s good for _something_.” 

Cassandra’s “ugh!” brought her back to the present. “Let’s find Hyndel, then,” she said, ignoring Varric’s comment and reorienting herself towards the stairwell the girl had pointed out.

She, Varric, Solas, and Cassandra climbed the stairs and entered the first level of the keep. No Hyndel there. Hara peered up a nearby ladder to a second floor and thought she heard the swish of robes above her. Wordlessly, she climbed the ladder, her companions following her up to the next level. As she crested the top of the ladder, she saw a young elven man swathed in a rather expensive looking cloak hovering over an alchemical table; she had wondered if part of the girl’s apparent irritation with the man was that he was treated better than other elves. Judging by his appearance, this was probably true.

“Hyndel?” Hara called tentatively.

“I greet you,” the elven man started, turning away from the concoction he was mixing, curiosity coloring his gaze. He took in her appearance slowly before nodding to her companions in greeting, “Yes, my name is Hyndel.”

“Hyndel, your mother can’t breathe,” Hara rushed out as she strode quickly towards him, thankful she’d finally found her quarry, “Your father sent me here for potion. 

“What? She was fine!” He exclaimed, and he sounded so sincerely worried Hara was sure there was hope she could convince him to return to the Crossroads, “She hasn’t had the breathing trouble in…”

“They’ve been freezing at the Crossroads,” Hara interrupted, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. He had a youthful face; perhaps he’d been tricked into this nonsense somehow, accepted into the ranks of the humans because of his utility as a healer. “The Inquisition has been able to offer coats and blankets to the refugees, but your mother… She won’t survive this without your help.”

“All right, I can help,” Hyndel rushed, “Here! I have some already made. Go, take it to her now!”

She had no intention of leaving without him. She chewed her lip, quickly trying to decide what she might say to convince the young elven man to see reason, to return to his family while he still had a family to return to. Hyndel reached out and pressed a vial of potion into her hand. Oddly, she found herself turning to Solas, hoping he could read the plea for assistance in her eyes.

He could, it seemed, his eyes meeting hers in a moment of shared understanding. Solas nodded his head almost imperceptibly and turned to address the young elven man. “You have the ears of the Elvhen people, boy, but not the soul,” Solas said, his voice firm. **“** You can feel the effects of the breach anywhere in the world. You can only help your family by going to them.”

Hyndel looked ready to protest, his brow furrowing. He took a sharp inhale of breath as if preparing to argue for his place here among the cultists, to rationalize abandoning his family to their fate in the Crossroads. Hara didn’t give him a chance.                    

“Listen,” she began, searching for words that might bolster Solas’. She hesitantly placed a hand on Hyndel’s shoulder and drew him closer. “I know about losing people… Family. Trust me when I say that if she dies of a cause you could’ve prevented, you’ll blame yourself for the rest of your life.” She fixed him with an intense gaze, hoping he’d understand the gravity of her statement, the seriousness of what she was trying to impart. “There is nothing so heartbreaking as knowing you’re the reason your…”—she stopped, searching for words. This was more than family, after all—“People have fallen apart.”

“I… perhaps you’re right,” Hyndel said, bringing his own hand up to grasp her shoulder. “Even if this world is just an illusion soon to be cast off, I should make my parents comfortable. Thank you, Herald of Andraste… Ser… I’ll gather my things and go directly.  My mother needs me, as do the others at the Crossroads.”

Hara nodded at him, a small smile spreading across her face. “No, Hyndel. Thank you.” She gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze and pressed the vial of potion back into his hand. “I’m sure seeing your face again will help your mother breathe much more easily than if I had delivered this to her myself.” Hyndel smiled slightly and left them, seemingly to gather his things to make the trek back home.

She’d hardly been expecting the look on Solas’ face as she turned back around to face the rest of their companions. It wasn’t pity, it was… Recognition, and deep-seated guilt. He looked on the outside how she felt on the inside when she thought about her grandfather. Completely culpable for her own misery and, worse, another’s suffering.

As their eyes met, Hara could see him hastily drawing back the curtain on a window he hadn’t meant to open.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! Thanks for reading another chapter. This one has a (very minor) trigger warning for (very vague) mentions of sexual assault/harassment. 
> 
> As always, I am so grateful for your comments, kudos, and feedback. I want to hear from you!
> 
> xoxo camp

Hara, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas arrived back in Haven to no small amount of fanfare, given the retinue of soldiers they’d brought back with them in order to transport two dozen beautiful horses from Dennet’s stable. Honestly, the horsemaster's charges looked better fed than most people she’d encountered in the Hinterlands, especially in the Crossroads. A few eager recruits milling about the stable area rushed forward to help the scouts dismount and prepare the horses to be situated in their new home.

Commander Cullen was among those who had joined the crowd as soon as they’d arrived, and Hara assumed he meant to seek out Cassandra for debriefing before whisking her off to the war table to discuss their progress with the Ambassador and Spymaster. He strode purposefully towards their party, passed Cassandra, and grasped the reins on the dappled grey paint Hara was riding, looking up at her with a small, polite smile.

“I’m glad to see you all back in once piece!” Cullen said, his tone light and friendly.

It wasn’t intentional, but Hara stiffened considerably, eyeing the hand he’d wrapped around her horse’s reins. “Yes…” she replied slowly, “I’m glad we were able to get so much accomplished in the Hinterlands.” She awkwardly dismounted from her steed and patted its neck in thanks for bearing her weight throughout the journey.

She didn’t look at him and instead spoke almost directly into the horse’s mane. “I’m sure you’ve got much to discuss with the Seeker, so I’ll leave you to it.” She extended her hand in his general direction. “I’ll take her from here, if you’ll hand me the reins.”

Cullen dropped the reins into her palm and she looked up to nod in thanks, giving him a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. He gave her an awkward smile as well, his now-free hand moving to rub uneasily at the back of his neck.

Cassandra, Varric, and Solas had dismounted and joined them. “Cullen,” Cassandra offered in greeting, “I am eager to hear about our soldiers’ progress and have much to share with you, Leliana, and Josephine. Herald, if you would, please join us in the Chantry in an hour to discuss our progress in the Hinterlands and to be debriefed on any updates from Val Royeaux.”

Hara deflated visibly. “Am I really necessary, Seeker?” She asked, her voice small and tired. “I’m hardly the best person to decide how to approach a Chantry full of divine people.” She gestured vaguely around her head. “Vallaslin, ears, alleged Dalish savage?”

Cassandra gave a wry smile. “Clerics, actually,” She corrected. “Even more of a reason to include you in our discussion. We must be as prepared as possible to deal with them. We must convince the Chantry to permit us entry into the city so we can show them the ‘Herald of Andraste’ is not the monster they believe.”

“I dunno, Seeker, she is pretty scary,” Varric offered in jest.

Hara narrowed her eyes at him. “Skillet,” she said simply, knowing the dwarf would fill in the details and ascertain she was threatening to wallop him with the iron-cast cooking utensil the Seeker had thrown at his head a few weeks prior. He pretended to cower. Solas’ soft chuckle was the only thing that reminded her he was there. Strange, really, how he could disappear so readily in plain sight.

“I understand your hesitation, Herald, but we cannot decide this without you,” Cassandra replied, reaching out to touch Hara’s shoulder.

“Indeed,” added Cullen, smiling a bit more authentically.

“I guess there’s no harm in talking…” Hara said, hardly cheered by the prospect. If she had learned anything in her time with the Inquisition, it was that anything they considered doing would be approximately seven times more involved, complicated, and intense than they’d initially expected.

“Come, Cassandra,” Cullen requested, “We can discuss the new recruits who have joined our ranks in your absence.” They wandered to a tent near the sparring grounds and Hara let out a defeated sigh.

“So while I’m discussing Chantry bullshit, you’ll be doing… What?” Hara gave both Solas and Varric an accusatory glare, “Drinking? Reading for pleasure? Having a _bath?_ ” She was in sore need of one herself.

“All three, actually,” Varric grinned. “You can find me when you’re done.”

“That is awfully forward of you, Master Tethras,” Solas teased, his eyes twinkling.

“I meant in the tavern!” the dwarf almost shouted, raising his hands in front of his chest in a defensive stance.

Hara sighed wistfully, a longing tone in her voice, “It seems I am doomed to an evening of disappointment all around.”

Varric grinned and rolled his eyes at her, retrieving Bianca and his pack from behind the saddle of the small horse he’d ridden. _Really more of a pony_ , she’d thought, but she’d never say it out loud. “Seriously though, join me for a drink,” he called over his shoulder as he wandered off towards the tavern, “Or ten. You’re supposed to babysit me, remember?”

Hara sighed in exasperation but could not keep the fond smile from her face. If she’d felt a modicum of attachment to Varric before they’d left for the Hinterlands, it had grown tenfold since. “And you, hahren?” Hara asked, turning to face Solas, “Off to the Fade?”

“Perhaps,” Solas replied, “Though I am keen to investigate the strange shards we found in our explorations. Enjoy your evening, Herald,” he finished with a slight nod of his head, wandering off in the direction of his cabin with a thoughtful look on his face.

Hara led her horse to a nearby stablehand and offered him her sincere thanks as he took the reins. He saluted her awkwardly with a “Yes, ser, Herald, ser,” and she took her leave, making the short trek to her own cabin.

She pushed the wooden door open and breathed a deep sigh of relief as it closed. _Alone at last_ , she thought. She looked longingly at the bed in the center of the room and unclasped the outer layers of her armor, removing her pauldrons, vambraces, and gauntlets with surprising speed. She tossed them unceremoniously onto the bed and stretched languidly, glad to be rid of the heavy iron shell. 

Hara bent down to unbuckle the greaves from her boots and _tsked_ her tongue in displeasure when she discovered a number of holes in the worn leather shafts she hadn’t noticed on the road. She was loathe to ask anyone for anything, but perhaps there was something she could do for Master Harritt in exchange for repairing her sorry footwear. She went to toss the greaves on her bed as well but thought better of it, quickly shoving the scattered pieces of her armor onto the floor and flopping down on the straw mattress unceremoniously.

She let out a deep sigh and rubbed her face, pressing the heels of her palms into her closed eyes until she saw stars. Hara thought for a long moment about what it would be like to just slip out of Haven. She still had the standard issue recruit armor she’d worn once she’d come to after sealing the rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She could shear her long braid with her hunting knife, pull her balaclava up high above her nose and mouth to hide her features, hide her vallaslin under a particularly large hood, slip out under the cover of darkness… Perhaps she’d take the dappled grey paint she’d ridden from the Hinterlands; it seemed rather agreeable and wasn’t likely to put up too much of a fuss if she stole it from the stables late at night.

Unbidden, a memory of her grandfather swam into her consciousness. She was eight, barely learning to play his beautifully carved lute, wailing pitifully at the ache in her fingertips, complaining about how difficult it was to stretch her small hand across its broad neck to reach the frets she needed to make a particular chord. _Da'len_ , her grandfather had scolded gently, _We finish what we’ve started_. She’d played and played that night until her small fingers bled. She brushed her fingertips against her lips, feeling old, rough callouses there; they’d lasted even though she hadn’t had access to an instrument in at least two years. She sighed, wondering what he’d think of her now, plotting to escape from a duty she hadn’t asked for but was resolutely assigned nevertheless.

“Alright, papae, you win,” she muttered to his ghost, sitting up abruptly and moving to pull her boots back on in one swift motion.

Hara made herself walk quickly to the Chantry, no more than a cursory nod at Varric as he emerged from his tent with a quill and sheaf of parchment in his hand, clearly headed to the tavern. She gave a very tight smile to Threnn the Quartermaster—she’d called her a knife ear before she realized who she was—and nodded respectfully at the Chantry sisters milling around outside. She took a deep breath, pushed open the Chantry’s doors, strode through the hallway, and reached the door to the war room. She could already hear the advisors heatedly discussing something inside, and she almost turned tail and left. She was late. _Shit._

She knocked hesitantly on the door, half-hoping they wouldn’t hear her. To her chagrin, none other than Mother Giselle opened the door for her, a kind smile gracing her face as she welcomed her into their discussions.

Josephine and Cullen were clearly having a disagreement.

“You can’t be serious!” Cullen argued, shaking his head.

“Mother Giselle isn’t wrong,” Josephine argued, though the diplomatic tone never left her voice. “At the moment, the Chantry’s only strength is that they are united in opinion.”

“And we should ignore the danger to the Herald?” Leliana questioned, hands behind her back, shifting from one leg to another in an almost dangerous fashion. She looked like a cat ready to spring on unsuspecting prey. Hara doubted it was far from the truth.

“Let’s ask her,” Josephine offered, turning to face Hara with a polite smile.

Hara felt the tips of her ears flush pink as each of the advisors turned to face her. She bit her lip awkwardly. She wanted to point out how completely ridiculous this was, to ask Cassandra and Josephine what they could possibly hope to accomplish by approaching a powerful religious organization that had renounced them and labeled her, specifically, a heretic and a murderer. She remembered the dungeons below Haven and her fingers twitched oddly, as if searching for her lock pick. She thought quickly, deciding to try her hand at a diplomatic response.

“I’m more concerned that this won’t actually solve any problems,” she offered slowly.

“I agree,” said Cullen, “It just adds credence to the idea that we should care what the Chantry says.”

Hara felt sweat bead at her forehead. She hadn’t been expecting agreement from the Commander, though they had much different reasons behind their concern. A human man—a Templar, no less—had a much greater chance of surviving the defiance of a powerful organization than a small, moderately underfed elven woman, even one who did wield an axe almost as big as herself.

“I will go with her,” Cassandra declared, “Mother Giselle said she could provide us names. Use them,” she said to Leliana.

“But why?” Leliana argued, “This is nothing but a—“

“What choice do we have, Leliana?” Cassandra asked, frustration evident in her tone and on her face, “Right now we can’t approach anyone for help with the Breach. Use what influence we have to call the clerics together. Once they are ready, we will see this through.” The finalization in Cassandra’s tone brooked no room for argument. It looked like Hara was going to be stuck approaching a pit full of vipers. She resolved to ask Josephine for some general pointers before they left… and ask Harritt to sharpen her axe.

She gave a tight smile to the advisors and asked if she might be excused. Before she left, she approached Josephine, scribbling madly on her tablet, deeply absorbed in recording what appeared to be an account of their decision-making processes for the purpose of documentation. Hara cleared her throat softly and Josephine jumped sightly, some of the ink from her quill spattering across the lower half of her parchment. “Ah, I’m sorry Ambassador!” Hara cried, hands out in apology, looking about the room for something she might offer the ambassador to sop up her spilled ink.

“Oh, no need, my lady,” Josephine replied quickly, blotting at her parchment with an extra sheet of paper, effectively salvaging her report. “How may I be of service?”

Josephine had such a warm, friendly smile that it assuaged much of Hara’s hesitancy. “I was wondering if… If you might have some advice for me, in the city.”

The ambassador’s eyes widened slightly, “Oh! Yes, of course!” She said quickly, eyes suddenly fixated on her vallaslin, “I hope this is not discourteous question, my lady, but…”

Hara anticipated what she meant and supplied the question for her. “You’re wondering if I’ve spent any time in a city?” 

“Yes, I must admit to some curiosity,” Josephine replied, blushing prettily. “Have you?”

“More than you might imagine,” Hara answered vaguely, though the smile she gave the ambassador was genuine. “Although never in this capacity.”

“Ah, yes…” Josephine expounded, “I imagine not. As you might imagine, many of the Chantry mothers will be surprised by your—ah—heritage. I am sure they’ve heard plenty of rumors about your origins by now, but it may still come as a shock when they see you in person. I would advise practicing a neutral expression and modulating your tone of voice. It will not do to let them think they have flustered you in any way, my lady.”

Hara nodded slowly, synthesizing her meaning. “Practically speaking, you’d like me to be…” she searched for a word and came up wanting. _Best to just say what you mean, then_ , she decided. “A cold bitch.”

Josephine’s tinkling laughter lifted her spirits somewhat. “That is not how I might have phrased it, Herald, but I think you understand my meaning.”

“Yes, I do,” she replied, “I think I’ll get Varric to coach me in a bit of double speak before we go. He’s fantastic at saying something without actually saying something, isn’t he?”

“Quite,” Josephine responded, her smile widening.

“When are we to leave, Madam Ambassador?” Hara asked, hoping that it wasn’t too soon.

“In three days, I believe, my lady,” she replied.

Hara nodded thoughtfully. There was a lot she could accomplish in three days… and a lot to worry about in three days. She bid Josephine goodnight and resolved to join Varric at the tavern. For educational purposes, of course; it had nothing to do with the pit of anxiety that had settled resolutely in her stomach.

She left the Chantry with renewed (anxious) energy and quickly made her way to the tavern, searching out the dwarf among the Inquisition’s recruits.

“Hello, Varric!” Hara called in what she hoped was a cheerful tone, sitting down across from him at his table near the back of the small establishment.

“Hi, Scarecrow,” he replied, looking a bit suspicious at her chipper mood, “Good meeting, then?”

“Oh no, terrible,” Hara replied casually with a wave of her hand, “Cassandra and Josephine are convinced I need to personally address the Chantry, and I find myself screaming on the inside anytime I think of it!” She tried a laugh. It sounded forced, unnatural, the pitch too high and the duration too long.

“You sound like you’re losing it, Hara,” Varric replied, his brow furrowed in concern.

Hara’s face fell. Something about hearing her name in addition to his slight criticism completely deflated her. “I was trying to do, you know, this causal thing where I don’t have feelings.” She sighed. “Josephine recommended I try it before we approach the Chantry.”

“Ah, I see,” Varric replied in understanding, hand reaching up to rub his chin thoughtfully. “I think I can help.”

“You can?” Hara asked, brightening considerably, “How?”

“How about I ask you about shit you’d rather not answer?” Varric replied, a smirk spreading across his face. “It’ll give you practice in deflection.” Hara noted the quill in his hand, saw his grip tighten slightly.

“Ha!” She barked a laugh. “You’re on. No quills, though.” She snatched the writing instrument from his hand.

“Fine, fine,” the dwarf conceded, waving over Flissa. She seemed to anticipate what he wanted, delivering a meal and a mug of ale for Hara.

“So… What’s your deal with Curly, Scarecrow?” Varric asked, handing her a bowl of thick vegetable soup and a delicious looking hunk of dark brown bread. It smelled amazing after the meager meals they’d taken on the road. She accepted it gratefully and arranged it next to her mug of ale, trying to decide which part of the dirty tavern table looked the cleanest before resolving herself to just hold the bread in her hand.

Hara wasn’t sure how to explain it without sounding… well, how the Commander had sounded on the few occasions she heard him talk about mages. She simply shrugged her reply and tore her bread into tiny pieces, dropping them one by one into her soup.

Varric was spot on with his observation. She did keep a healthy distance from Commander Cullen. It wasn’t that he was human; it was that he was a Templar. She’d had little contact with them in Wycome, but the contact she had experienced had been… deeply unpleasant, to say the least. From the time she could walk, her grandfather taught her keep her head down and her mouth shut around anyone whose armor bore their iconic symbol. He had insisted she never leave the alienage without him or at least two elven women, even if she just meant to leave the walls to retrieve a plaything someone had thrown too far or to purchase a sweet roll with a copper piece he gave her on the rare occasions he’d made a little extra money from trading songs or his beautifully woven blankets.

She’d always been confused as to why one of him equaled two of the women until she’d gotten older. When she reached her twelfth year and her body began to change, she’d understood. She started to develop wide, womanly hips and a slender waist but retained an impossibly flat chest. She’d cursed her utter lack of breasts until she’d seen three Templars corner a pair of elven lasses and… well, she heeded his warning carefully and never left home without company and a flat dagger strapped to her thigh. She hadn’t changed much since then, not in sentiment and not in proportionality. A bit taller, much older, and still considerably wary.

She noticed Varric still eyeing her as she pushed the bread around the bowl with her spoon. He finally spoke.

“You know, Hare, for such a loudmouth, you sure do know how to keep your trap shut,” Varric finally said. “I’m not sure if it counts as practice in deflection if you don’t actually deflect.” 

Hara grinned. She’d strangely missed the stupid and borderline offensive nickname he’d given her after they’d met. “One of us has to!” She declared as she raised her mug and clinked it messily against his, brown liquid sloshing out of her cup and onto the table. She quickly downed her mug of ale and pushed the mostly unfinished bowl of stew over to Varric’ side of the table. “Here, finish this for me,” she requested.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” He asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

“I’ve got to see a man about a horse,” she replied in mock seriousness, bidding him goodbye with a wave as she pushed open the tavern door with her boot.

Really, though, she did want to see how Dennet’s charges were settling in, and she thought she’d ask Harritt if he might be able to fix the ever-widening holes in her boots. And sharpen her axe.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hullo pals! Here's a bit of fluff for you before we head off to Val Royeaux. Elvhen translations at the end. I'd love to hear your reactions to the ending, so please take the time to leave a comment if you can! :P
> 
> xx camp

Hara left the tavern in spirits similar to those she’d arrived in: full of nervous energy. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to spend time with Varric—she enjoyed being around him more than anyone, actually—she just didn’t trust herself not to blurt out something stupid in their “deflection practice” and she was feeling cramped and claustrophobic as the tavern began to fill up with more of the Inquisition’s soldiers as the sun set and they arrived to fill their empty bellies with Flissa’s cooking and no small amount of ale.

She headed down the path towards Haven’s gate, having resolved herself to approach Harritt if he was still working. Perhaps he would have some sort of a job for her to do in exchange for mending her boots and sharpening her axe. She had almost reached the gates before she came to an abrupt stop; there was Commander Cullen, leaning against the stone walls, his face upturned towards the sky in thought. He seemed distracted, thinking about something deeply troubling, his brow furrowed in concentration as he searched the stars.

 _Shit_. She would have to walk right past him—practically through him, really—if she wanted to leave Haven and make her way to Harritt’s forge. She decided it could wait.

She spun quickly on her heel with the intention of returning to the tavern— _Perhaps Varric was the better option after all—_ and smacked directly into someone else’s solid form. She gave a small yelp of surprise and stumbled backwards into the snow, falling flat on her ass with apologies already tumbling from her lips.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Hara explained quickly, a blush spreading rapidly across her cheeks. She looked up into the person’s face. Solas. _Damn_.

“Clearly,” he replied, his tone gently scolding even as he reached out a hand to help her up.

Hara accepted his hand hesitantly and Solas pulled her to her feet. She gracelessly brushed snow off of her leather breeches and woefully realized she’d gotten snow in her boots, holey as they were. She glared down at her feet in accusation before standing on one leg, swiftly removing her left boot, and shaking it out tenaciously. She had almost gotten all of the soft, wet snow out of her shoe by the time she realized Solas was chuckling at her.

Hara raised her head and gave him what she hoped a withering look. “Something funny, hahren?” She felt her teeth start to chatter at the cold and swiftly pulled her boot back on. She almost bent down to remove the right one for the same treatment, but thought better of it while he was still around to see her, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“Not in the slightest,” Solas said, shaking his head as a small smile spread across his face. “Though I must admit to some curiosity about your choice of footwear.”

Hara observed Solas’ own expertly wrapped feet and looked up at him with an appalled expression. “Likewise,” she said, “I have no idea how your toes haven’t fallen off in all this damn snow.”

“Magic,” he responded, an amused look on his face as he regarded her.

“Isn’t it exhausting to constantly maintain a warming spell?” Hara asked in genuine curiosity. “What if you find yourself suddenly out of mana in a moment of need? Death by warm toes is a rather underwhelming way to meet one’s end.”

Solas’ sudden laughter surprised her and Hara felt the tips of her ears turn pink in embarrassment. “No, Herald, it is an enchantment.”

“Oh,” Hara said stupidly, feeling her blush deepen. “Well, that’s useful,” she tacked on lamely.

“Yes, quite,” Solas responded, “I would say I was surprised your clan did not use such techniques, but enchanting items requires significant magical skill… And the Dalish are often less than keen to learn new things,” he finished with a tone of displeasure.

Hara opened her mouth, ready to say something in defense of the Dalish but thought better of it. She felt a deep weariness in her bones and, mixed with the rapidly melting snow in her right boot, she was too tired and uncomfortable to argue with him. And besides, he wasn’t wrong—just rude. She closed her mouth with a heavy sigh and a shake of her head and moved to walk past him.

Her lack of response must’ve surprised him as he called after her. “Herald, wait—“

Hara turned back around and looked up at Solas wearily. “I have a name, you know,” she said in response.

“As do I,” he snapped in retaliation; if he’d felt badly about the comment she’d ignored, his concern must’ve evaporated. His ire was gone as quickly as it came and he schooled his face back into the neutralexpression he typically wore. “I happen to be in possession of a spare set of foot wraps,” he said slowly, “Enchanted, of course, to repel water and freezing temperatures.”

“How wonderful for you,” Hara offered flatly in response, genuinely confused about the odd direction their conversation had just taken.

“I am offering to lend them to you, you stubborn woman,” Solas huffed. He looked a bit like a cat who’d just had a bucket of water flung onto him, puffed up with frustration that he’d had to spell it out for her.

“Oh!” Hara sputtered, eyebrows shooting up her forehead in surprise. He had truly caught her off guard. She wasn’t sure how to politely decline his offer; it was truthfully rather thoughtful, but she hated wearing foot wraps. But, then again, if they were warmer than her boots, perhaps it would be worth it. She hadn’t realized she’d been standing silently in debate with herself until Solas cleared his throat loudly.

“It is customary to say thank you when someone offers you something,” Solas chastised, but his tone was light, some laughter hidden underneath the scolding, “Or is gratitude a lost art among the Dalish as well?”

Hara felt her flush deepen and wondered if she looked anything like Cassandra did when Varric teased her. _Andraste’s tits, I hope not._ Despite the wave of embarrassment that had crashed over her, Hara resolved herself to answer his teasing with some ribbing of her own. She couldn’t let two comments about the Dalish slip by in one conversation, especially since it had been so long since he’d made such a comment.

“Perhaps among the Dalish, but not among me,” she replied, stepping into the dance he’d been weaving around her, picking up the threads of his jest despite her exhaustion. “An offer is hardly worthy of gratitude until it becomes an action, _lethallin_.”

Solas curved one eyebrow in interest, seemingly surprised by her use of Elvhen. “To action, then,” he replied, leading her back up the path she’d followed upon leaving the tavern earlier.

He led her to his cabin, a bit smaller than her own, but blessedly situated off Haven’s beaten path and much easier to enter (and leave) without numerous curious eyes following her every move. He entered first, holding the door open for her. She stopped a few steps in to remove her boots, loathe to dirty his clean floor with the muddied soles. He seemed a bit surprised at her thoughtfulness but did not say anything, rather shutting the door quickly against the cold and moving to rifle through a pack on his bed.

As Solas searched his pack, Hara took the opportunity to examine his cabin more closely. He had situated his desk against his window, presumably so the could make use of natural lighting during the day. The desk was neat, a few books and a sheaf of parchment stacked on the corner along with several quills. Hara reached out to touch a beautifully detailed sketch of the shards they’d found in the Hinterlands in wonder. She had no idea he possessed such skill as an artist.

Hara turned to take in the opposite side of the room and noted a rather horrifying painting of a suspicious looking man. The look on his face was so cruel and strange it sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the weather outside. She’d noticed similar paintings around Haven before but had never stopped to truly inspect them; now, she wished she hadn’t.

“What a ghastly man,” Hara said softly, oddly compelled to reach out and touch the painting. “Who is he?”

She hadn’t heard Solas come to stand behind her, deep blue straps of silky cloth she assumed were foot wraps clutched in his hand. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Solas responded, gazing at the odd portrait with her. Hara gave an involuntary shiver. “I don’t think I could sleep with him looking at me like that,” she said. “Who on earth decorates a home with such a nefarious character?”

“Many Dalish clans have statues of Fen’harel surrounding their campsites in hopes of keeping the Dread Wolf at bay,” Solas said with undisguised disgust. “Perhaps this man represents something similar to the people of Haven.”

Hara frowned. “It’s not Fen’harel’s fault the Dalish are superstitious. And at least his statues are beautiful; this man’s look could curdle milk.”

“Do you not share their sentiments?” Solas queried, an unreadable look on his face. Passive and schooled, carefully so.

“If you must know, I think their stories of the Creators are little more than fairytales meant to stave off loneliness and explain away misfortunes,” Hara said flatly, “If the Creators ever existed, they were nothing more than mages with powerful magic and a propensity for making spectacularly bad decisions.” It wasn’t an opinion that made her particularly popular among Clan Lavellan and in fact, some of the clan’s elders had called for her exile once she’d shared her rather blasphemous views. Whatever promise bound her grandfather and the clan’s keeper together must’ve been incredibly powerful to have saved her from their wrath. After that, Keeper Deshanna had dedicated herself to teaching her “proper Dalish lore,” declaring it “pitiful” that her grandfather hadn’t known (or if he had known, hadn’t cared) to teach her about her so-called “Elvhen heritage.”

“ _Their_ stories?” He asked, the inflection in his voice betraying her slip. _Shit._ It was too late to take it back, so she chose not to respond at all. Instead, she gingerly fingered the beautiful cloth in his hands and was surprised to find it felt quite warm to the touch. She supposed it was the effects of the enchantment he’d mentioned earlier but still, it was almost wondrous to behold.

“They’re so warm!” Hara said happily, smiling up at him with unrestrained joy. “You’re really lending them to me?”

“Yes,” Solas replied, a small smile on his face as he pressed the cloth into her hands. She held it awkwardly, trying desperately to remember how she’d seen her clanmates wrap their feet. It had been years and years since she’d last worn them and she hoped she could remember how to tie the complicated knots that would ensure they didn’t slip and remained snug throughout the day. She knew she’d been gazing at the cloth for too long and rushed to say something that might cover for her apparent interest in them.

“I must say, these look a bit ostentatious to belong to a wandering apostate,” Hara teased, gazing up at Solas with interest. She was incredibly surprised (and secretly pleased) to see the tips of his ears color slightly. Really, they were so misaligned to the austere, beige-and-olive-drab color palette he favored, she had a hard time imagining him wearing them.

Solas laughed softly. “Relics from another time,” he said, an unexpected tinge of sadness coloring his words.

Hara marveled as the wraps practically radiated heat in her hands and decided she was willing to endure the shame of asking for directions if it meant her toes would be toasty warm for the first time in what felt like months. She cleared her throat and prepared herself; she would bet good coin that he’d tease her mercilessly once she revealed her ignorance of yet another prototypically Dalish habit.

“I, ah…” she stopped awkwardly, searching for the words to ask her question, scolding herself for her cowardice. _Out with it!_ “Could you please show me how to wrap them? I never really got the hang of it,” she added sheepishly, feeling a flush spread across her cheeks. 

Solas’ eyes widened in surprise but amazingly, he did not laugh at her. “Ma nuvenin,” he simply said, “Have a seat.”

Hara did as she was told and sat in the hard wooden chair he had pushed underneath his desk and removed the stockings she’d been wearing underneath her worn leather booths. She looked up at him expectantly but was surprised to find he had extended his hand, seemingly asking for her to return the foot wraps he’d just lent her.

“Change your mind, then?” Hara asked as she nervously eyed his hand.

“It will be easier to teach you if I wrap them for you the first time,” Solas responded, a touch of impatience in his tone.

“Surely verbal instructions will suffice,” Hara said uncomfortably. Though she had grown marginally more comfortable with the casual touches she sometimes shared with her companions as they traveled together, such intentional contact felt incredibly strange and far too familiar for her comfort level.

“They will not,” Solas replied firmly, reaching down to take the wraps out of her hands and kneeling swiftly in front of her. He grasped her right foot with an astonishingly gentle touch, bringing it up to rest on one of his knees. Hara felt her flush deepen and was sure the redness of her face was rivaling even Cassandra’s intense blushing at this point.

There was something so painfully intimate about watching him slowly wrap the beautiful blue cloth around her feet and calves, murmuring occasional instructions as he deftly wrapped her foot. She was surprised to find his hands were mostly soft, save for the hard callouses on his palms she assumed had formed from years of expertly wielding his staff. She was mystified as she watched him tie small, intricate knots periodically behind her calf, winding the cloth snugly around her leg and stopping just above her knees. He repeated the process on her other leg and as he finished, she had the vague realization that she’d been holding her breath the entire time.

“Ma serannas, Solas,” Hara said quietly, her voice soft and borderline breathless.

“‘Ma neral, Hara,” he replied.

Later, as she laid in bed in the dark of the night, she found her sleeplessness entirely unrelated to concerns about potential nightmares she might encounter in the Fade. She found herself playing and replaying the scene in her mind, wondering at the strange kindness and even stranger intimacy he’d shared with her, at how his lips formed the two syllables of her name. _Ha-ra_. Hearing it had done something to her she would never admit aloud and was barely aware she was thinking. He blew so hot and cold it sometimes made her head spin. She wryly imagined what Keeper Deshanna might say if she could see her now.

Probably something akin to _May the Dread Wolf take him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lethallin - friend  
> Ma nuvenin - as you wish  
> Ma serannas - thank you  
> ‘Ma neral - my pleasure


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeee! This was fun to write :) Next up: Vivienne and Sera! 
> 
> xx camp

As they entered their third and final day of travel to Val Royeaux, Hara was convinced she’d invented a large part of the evening Solas had wrapped her feet with the beautiful enchanted cloth he’d deigned to lend her. Honestly, she’d have thought the entire encounter a trick of the Fade if it weren’t for the fact that it had been years since she’d had a good dream—that, and that her feet were mercifully warm and dry.

From the time they left Haven’s gates, they’d rode alongside one another in silence. It wasn’t particularly tense, just terribly distant, and it reminded Hara of her interactions with Solas the first week they’d spent together in the Hinterlands. She had no doubt they’d be bickering about something if they were speaking to one another… Which they weren’t. The first day on the road to Val Royeaux, Hara wracked her brain for what she might have said or done to cause offense.

Was her use of Elvhen disagreeable to him in some way? Perhaps her accent was atrocious compared to the ancient memories he claimed to have seen the Fade. No, it was not so different from his own—so she ruled that out. Perhaps Solas had changed his mind about lending her the foot wraps and was unsure how to ask for them back? No, that couldn’t be it either—unless she’d imagined it, he made the offer affably, and he hardly struck her as the kind of man who would lend out his personal effects unless they were given freely. Perhaps it was nothing and she was imagining the distance—but no again, Varric had teased her about the silent tension that hung between them. _Brrr!_ He’d said teasingly as he rode his pony between them on their second day, _Is it my imagination, or is it colder right here?_

Once they reached the outskirts of the sprawling city, they had left their horses and some supplies with a small retinue of Leliana’s scouts who had been stationed nearby, presumably gathering intelligence inside the city. She noted one scout sent a raven off after they left on foot to make the rest of the journey and knew the spymaster was tracking their progress even from here. As they crossed a grandbridge near the city’s entrance, Hara heard the doleful chiming of what must’ve been truly enormous bells to have been heard from so far away.

“The city still mourns,” Cassandra supplied in explanation as a pair of nobles passed them in dark clothing. The woman in the pair practically screamed as she took in Hara’s appearance: her dark leathers had been stained with blood and she wore her hair in its prototypical long, fishtail braid. The strands had turned more blonde than red from constant sun exposure and her braid was loose from travel. She knew her golden vallaslin was starkly visible in the bright sunlight and she had Solas’ beautiful blue fabric wrapped intricately around her feet and legs. She knew she must look quite foreign—savage, really, to the noblewoman.

“Just a guess, Seeker,” Varric began, observing the woman’s almost comical reaction, “But I think they all know who we are.”

“Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric,” Cassandra replied flatly.

“Maker,” Hara breathed as they pushed open the gates into something marked the Avenue of Reflective Thought, much to the apparent surprise of her companions. “It’s beautiful,” she remarked as she beheld the entrance to Val Royeaux’s market. She breathed in deeply, keen to experience the sight with all her senses. “And disgusting,” she noted as the smell of sewage filled her nostrils.

Varric gave an abrupt laugh. “Beautifully put, Herald,” he said.

Hara pulled the cowl of her scarf up over her nose. “Humans are revolting,” she muttered, her voice somewhat muffled by the fabric. As cramped as they were, even the alienage in Wycome smelled better. Cassandra gave her a look but she was surprised to find a small smile on Solas’ face. Perhaps he was thawing now they were off the road? Just then, one of Leliana’s scouts appeared from the shadows, coming to kneel in front of Hara.

“My lady Herald,” the scout began.

“You’re one of Leliana’s people,” Cassandra interrupted, a touch of surprise coloring her voice.

“Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Seeker,” Varric replied, his tone almost sing-song as he teased her.

Cassandra gritted her teeth but bid the scout to continue with her report. “What have you found?”

“The Chantry mothers await you,” the scout said, “But so do a great many Templars.” Hara clenched her jaw at that news. _Fantastic. A retinue of armored assholes._

“There are Templars here?” Cassandra asked, genuine surprise on her face.

“People seem to think the Templars will protect them from—“ The scout stopped abruptly, a small flush coloring her cheeks as she took in Hara’s appearance, “From the Inquisition. They’re gathering on the other side of the market. I think that’s where the Templars intend to meet you.”

“Only one thing to do then,” Cassandra replied in resignation. She looked to Hara and nodded her head, then to Varric and Solas, seeming to convey to them that they should prepare themselves for whatever they might find further into the city. As they traveled down the avenue and into Val Royeaux’s marketplace, Hara was surprised at how somber and quiet it seemed. She took in the gruesome appearance of the gallows—mercifully empty—and noted that a number of shopkeepers had closed their stalls. People seemed to be milling about anxiously, watching something happening in a small courtyard back towards Val Royeaux’s docks.

“Three guesses where we need to go,” Varric said as they approached. There were a number of Chantry mothers waiting for them—and a few Templars, Hara noted, sweat beading on her forehead.

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!” One woman began, and a fresh wave of anger bubbled up in Hara at her showmanship. “Together we mourn our Divine. Her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderer? Well, wonder no more!”

The woman raised a finger and pointed at Hara in accusation. “Behold!" She cried, “The so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! The Maker would send no savage elf in our hour of need!”

“I make no such claim!” Hara responded with steel in her voice, “I wasn’t sent here by Andraste or the Maker! I am simply trying to close the Breach. It threatens us all!”

“It’s true,” Cassandra added, and Hara could’ve kissed her, “The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late!” Hara’s hands had begun to shake with anxiety and no small amount of fear, surrounded as they were by a marketplace full of humans who looked as though they’d be glad to string her up on the gallows they’d passed in their approach. Perhaps that’s why they had been there… _Waiting for me with the hangman’s noose._

“It is already too late!” The Mother rebuked, and Hara heard the clank of many armored feet approach. _Gods, more Templars_ , she thought, as a retinue of soldiers approached the makeshift stage the Chantry mother was speaking from. “The Templars have returned to the Chantry!” The Mother cried, her voice almost rapturous, “They will face this ‘Inquisition,’ and the people will be safe once more!” 

One of the men joined her on stage and Hara tried to steel herself for more baseless accusations. Much to her surprise, the man reared back and punched the Mother forcefully, a resounding crack filling the air as the woman fell to the ground, blood rapidly pooling from her lips. One of the Templars made to help her to her feet, but a grey-haired, pockmarked man stopped him.

“Still yourself,” he boomed, “She is beneath us.” Hara could’ve sworn she heard Varric mutter “Literally,” but even he would know this was a poor time for making jokes.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Hara cried, surprised to find herself outraged on the Mother’s behalf given she’d practically been calling for her head a few moments ago.

“Her claim to ‘authority’ is an insult,” the man responded, his tone haughty, “Much like your own.”

“I haven’t claimed any authority!” Hara yelled in response, clenching her small fists and digging her nails into her palms in an effort to will them to stop shaking. Cassandra approached the man slowly, holding her hands out in front of her in a peacemaking gesture, “Lord Seeker Lucius,” she addressed him, “It is imperative that we speak with—“

“You will not address me,” the apparent Lord Seeker replied, pushing past Cassandra. Hara was sure this was the first time she’d ever seen someone openly disrespect Cassandra and her ire grew.

“Lord Seeker?” Cassandra asked, shock written on her face.

“Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet, a filthy knife ear as Andraste’s prophet,” the Lord Seeker accused, spitting at Cassandra’s feet, “You should be ashamed. You should all be ashamed! The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!”

Hara tasted ozone in her mouth and was barely aware of magic beginning to crackle behind her. She reached out without thinking, grasping Solas’ hand tightly in a nonverbal plea. _Please don’t make this worse,_ she willed him, and his hand was so cold she was sure he’d been forming a spell of ice. Suddenly, the feeling was gone and she remembered herself; she dropped his hand like she’d been burned.

“You are the ones who have failed!” Lucius continued, “You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!”

Her mouth was moving before she realized and the accusation tumbled from her lips before she could stop herself. “Righteous? Hitting an old woman, a figurehead of a religious organization you would not exist without? You call this righteous? You are a fucking coward.” Her hands were shaking again and she hated that she’d left her axe with Leliana’s scouts outside of the city at Cassandra’s behest— _Come, Herald, we should not give them any more reasons to fear you. We will remain armed, but it is important that they do not see you as a threat._ She felt a hand reach out to grasp her own and was shocked to find Solas’ cool palm enclosed around her small, shaking fist; before she knew what she was doing, she’d threaded her fingers with his.

“If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late,” Lucius spat. “The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

“Then why are you here?” Hara practically shouted, suddenly overcome by the urge to hit him. She moved to drop Solas’ hand and was taken aback when he tightened his grip.

“I came to see what frightens old women so,” the Lord Seeker sneered, “And to laugh.”

“But Lord Seeker,” said the Templar who had tried to help the Mother as she fell earlier,” What if she really was sent by the Maker? What if—“

“Do not question,” responded the man who had punched the Mother, “You are called to a higher purpose."

“ _I_ will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone agains the Void. _We_ deserve recognition. Independence!” Lucius cried and looked her up and down with disdain. “You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition… less than nothing. Templars!” He turned to address the retinue of soldiers, some who had followed him there and others who had stood with the Chantry mothers in their address, “Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march!”

Hara was mystified as she watched the Templars march out of the marketplace and gaped, open-mouthed, as they unquestioningly followed after him. She felt Solas release her hand and was suddenly jarred at the loss, as though she’d forgotten he’d been holding it. She looked up at him in confusion and he stared back at her impassively.

“Charming fellow, isn’t he?” Varric asked sarcastically.

“Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?” Casandra asked, eyes wide with shock and confusion as she tried to make sense of what they had just witnessed.

“Do you know him very well?” Solas queried, turning to face Cassandra.

“He took over the Seekers of Truth two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was always a decent man, never given to ambition or grandstanding,” Cassandra replied. "This is very bizarre,” she finished quietly.

“I think I’ve seen more ambition and grandstanding today than I’ve ever seen in my fucking life,” Hara replied irritably. “ _Fenedhis_ ,” she cursed, “I’m surprised he didn’t drop his trousers and demand to have someone measure him.”

Varric barked a laugh, but Cassandra seemed less than amused. “I wouldn’t write them off so quickly,” she said in earnest, “There must be those in the Order who see what he’s become. Either way, we should first return to Haven and inform the others.”

Hara nodded but before her lips could form words of agreement, a pained groan behind her caught her attention. She turned and suddenly remembered the Chantry mother who had been hit so savagely before. She couldn’t look at her there in pain and do nothing, infuriated as she was with the woman, and frankly, the entire organization she represented.

“You’re in over your head, Mother,” she offered the fallen woman as she moved to help her stand, pressing her palm against the woman’s rapidly swelling jaw to stifle the flow of blood from the deep wound near her mouth. “I cannot say I’m surprised, but I can say I’m sorry,” she muttered quietly, wiping the blood from her mouth with a handkerchief she’d hastily stuffed in her pocket before they’d left Haven.

The Mother looked at her with undisguised suspicion, even as blood pooled from the wound the Templar had inflicted. “Why are you helping me? I do not need your assistance.” She spat as Hara continued to pat at the wound with her cloth.

“You’re lucky I’m not cleaning it off with spit,” Hara snapped. “Act like a child and you will be treated as one.”

Solas’ sharp bark of laughter startled her so much that she almost dropped her handkerchief.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No breeches!! Next up: back to Haven and onto our bearded friend. 
> 
> xx camp

After the Templars left the marketplace, an elegant man approached her with an invitation to a salon held by one Vivienne de Fer, First Enchantress of Montsimmard, at the chateau of one Duke Bastian de Ghislain. The invitation was trimmed with lace and lightly scented—rosewater and something sweeter that reminded Hara of sticky pastries. Hara crinkled her nose at the frilly thing. Completely ridiculous, she’d told Cassandra, who had agreed halfheartedly with an odd look on her face. Nevertheless, they were slated to make a brief visit to the de Ghislain manor.

Once there, Hara met with the haughty Orlesian mage—first enchanter to the Imperial Court, liaison to the empress in all arcane matters, mage of no small talent, et cetera, et cetera—truthfully, Hara had stopped listening to the mage as she prattled on about how invaluable her assistance might be, but had accepted her offer to join the Inquisition nevertheless. Hara knew they were low on steadfast allies and, considering the incredible cock up that had been their visit to Val Royeaux thus far, she figured it couldn’t hurt to accept Madame de Fer as an ally. The enchantress indicated she would join them in Haven after setting her affairs in Orlais in order.

Now, their party was seeking out another potential collaborator while they were in the area. Cassandra was less than pleased at Hara’s insistence that they follow a set of vague clues someone had left for them around Val Royeaux’s marketplace, but Varric and Solas were surprisingly keen to see where the clues might lead them. They’d made it to a courtyard under the cover of darkness and were quietly looking for additional clues when they were rudely interrupted by a rather flamboyantly dressed mage and his apparent retinue of lackeys.

“Herald of Andraste!” He cried as he flung a ball of fire in her direction, “How much did you expend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably!”

Hara was immediately reminded of the haughty Orlesian mage she’d just accepted into the ranks of the Inquisition. She rolled her eyes as she walked further into the courtyard, Varric, Cassandra, and Solas at her back. “I don’t even know who you are,” she said flatly, tightening her grip on her axe as she readied herself for battle.

“You don’t fool me!” The mage continued, and Hara was truly losing her patience now, “I’m too important for this to be an accident! My efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere!”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Hara practically shouted. She meant to advance on the man, keen for their confrontation to end simply so she didn’t have to hear him talk any longer. She stopped as she heard the whistle of an arrow and one of the man’s lackeys fell to the ground in a slump.

A woman, dressed in the same bright red cloth that had characterized the hints that had been left for them around Val Royeaux, stepped around the corpse with a crinkle of her nose. She fixed the ostentatious mage with an irritated glance and knocked another arrow to her bow, smiling almost cruelly as she addressed him.

“Just say what,” she said, pulling her bowstring taut.

“What is the—“ the mage began before the archer released the arrow that pierced his throat. Hara winced as she heard the arrow’s sharp tip slice through the man’s windpipe and he began to gurgle blood, spilling thick and red down his front, before falling into a heap at the woman’s feet.

“Yeugh!” The archer said, approaching the man and orienting herself towards Hara. She wore the ugliest pair of trousers Hara had ever seen in her life and her tunic was worn and ripped in places, the neck gaping open to display the ample cleavage of a truly spectacular pair of breasts. Hara would’ve been jealous if she wasn’t so damn suspicious.

“Squishy one,” the archer continued, and now Hara noticed the slender points of her ears as she turned her face to regard the dead man, “But you heard me, right? Just say ‘what.’ Rich tits always try for more than they deserve. Blah, blah blah! Obey me! Arrow in my face!” She reached down to remove her arrow from the remnants of the man’s neck, crinkling her nose in disgust at the squelching noise it made as she pulled it loose.

Hara heard Varric laugh openly and Cassandra huffed in relatively quiet disapproval. Solas was watching the scene with interest and had his staff tightly gripped in his hand; he looked ready to cast a barrier over their party in defense at a moment’s notice.

“So,” the elven woman continued, “You followed the notes well enough. Glad to see you’re—“ She stopped abruptly as she looked Hara up and down, an almost disdainful expression on her face. “Aaaand you’re an elf! Well… Hope you’re not too… Elfy, then.” She finished

Hara crinkled her brow in confusion. “What?” This was the first time in her life she had been accused of being “too elfy” and was unsure how to respond.

“I mean it’s all good, innit?” The archer continued, “The important thing is: you glow? You’re the Herald thingy?”

“Yes…” Hara replied slowly, “I am the thingy. What’s going on?” She was only getting more and more confused as this conversation continued, so she figured it best to try to get some clarification from the woman.

“No idea, I don’t know this idiot from manners,” the archer shrugged and Hara had the urge to rip her own hair out in frustration. “My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”

“Your people? Elves?” Hara asked in confusion. Adding more people to this conversation couldn’t possibly help to clarify this truly baffling discussion.

“No,” the archer replied irritably, “PEOPLE people.” Hara wanted to scream.

“Name’s Sera,” the archer finally supplied, and Hara took a deep breath to calm herself down, “This is cover,” she said as she introduced a pile of boxes next to her. “Get ‘round it. For the reinforcements. Don’t worry, someone tipped me their equipment shed. They’ve got no breeches,” Sera finished with glee.

“You stole their…” Hara trailed off, eyes wide with shock as several armed men sprinted towards them in various states of undress; none of them were wearing pants and she marveled to discover a few had no smalls on either.

“Breeches! They’ve got no breeches!” crowed the generously proportioned elven maiden in front of them, her unevenly cropped hair falling back from her face as she threw her head back and laughed in unrestrained joy. She swiftly knocked an arrow to her bow and let it fly into one man’s arsecheek.

“This is utterly glorious,” Hara whispered, and she meant every word, adjusting the grip on her two-headed axe as she prepared for battle against the half-clad soldiers.

“Why didn’t you take their weapons?” Hara heard Cassandra ask irritably as the soldiers descended on them. Hara couldn’t help but laugh out loud as she swung her axe in a wide circle, catching two pantsless men with her broad swing. She always felt worse fighting actual people—it was much easier to kill a demon or a wild animal than a person, even one who has hell-bent on killing her first—but there was something so incredibly comical about these angry, half-dressed mercenaries that it became easier to strike a killing blow.

“Bunch of nutters!” Sera cried as she shot another man before flipping backwards and away from another soldier who had almost caught her, “Get it? Nutters!”  
****

By the time the fighting had ended, Hara was truly breathless, and almost none of it had to do with exerting herself. She was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe and was even beginning to feel tears of mirth form in her eyes.

“Friends really came through with that tip,” Sera said as she retrieved a handful of arrows from the bodies of the men they’d fought. She made to remove her arrow from one’s arsecheek but seemed to think better of it. “No breeches!” She giggled again and Hara smiled at her, shaking her head slightly. “So, Herald of Andraste,” Sera continued, giving Hara an appraising look and seeming a bit surprised at her amusement, “You’re a strange one. I’d like to join.”

“Absolutely,” Hara said immediately, extending her hand to shake Sera’s. The taller elven woman grinned down at her.

“Knew you wouldn’t waste time asking stupid questions,” Sera said as she grasped her hand.

“Herald, surely we must take a few moments for sense to reassert itself,” Cassandra admonished, and truthfully both Solas and Varric looked a bit hesitant as well. “Who are you people?” The Seeker queried suspiciously.

“I’m not “People,” but I get what you want,” Sera said, turning to face the Seeker. “It’s like this. I sent you a note to look for hidden stuff by my friends. The Friends of Red Jenny. That’s me.” The elven woman gave an odd flourish Hara assessed as some bastardization of a curtsey and a bow.

“I have heard of these so-called 'Friends',” Cassandra said suspiciously, “I am not sure an alliance with a band of brigands is wise, Herald.”

Hara opened her mouth to protest, but was suddenly reminded of the time she’d drug a mangy kitten back to the alienage and begged her grandfather to allow her to keep the flea-bitten thing. She’d pouted and pouted, her eyes filling with big tears in sadness she truthfully did not feel that deeply as she wheedled him into ill-advised pet ownership. The kitten had died just a few days later and Hara had been heartbroken, but she cherished the time she’d spent with the tiny thing. While she’d been lost in her reverie, Sera had taken to arguing for herself.

“It’s just a name, yeah?” Sera insisted, “It lets little people, ‘Friends,’ be part of something while they stick it to nobles they hate. So here, in your face, I’m Sera. The ‘Friends of Red Jenny’ are sort of out there,” she waved around vaguely. “I used them to help you. Plus arrows.”

“Leliana is the only spymaster we could possibly need, Herald,” Cassandra asserted seriously. “She is a truly masterful player of the game, whereas this…woman,” she looked at Sera with a disapproving crinkle of her nose, “Is likely to mix us up in things we do not need to be involved in.”

“Here’s how it is,” Sera said to Hara, grasping her hand in earnest and entirely ignoring the Seeker, “You ‘important’ people”—she gave a hostile look in Cassandra’s direction—“Are up here, shoving your cods around. ‘Blah, blah, I’ll crush you. I’ll crush _you_! Oooh, crush _you_ …”

Sera had gotten distracted; she was making kissing noises as she pressed her hand against Hara’s, acting as though their palms were engaged in a passionate bout of foreplay. Hara watched the demonstration wide-eyed before her stare seemed to remind the archer of what she’d been doing. “Oh! Ahem,” she said, clearing her throat and readying herself to continue.

She released Hara’s hand but continued to wave her own about for emphasis. “Then, you’ve got cloaks and spy-kings. Like this tit. Or was he one of the little knives, all serious with his… little knife. All those secrets, and what give him up? Some houseboy who don’t know shite, but knows a bad person when he sees one. So no, I’m not Knifey Shivdark, all hidden. But if you don’t listen down here, you risk your breeches.”

“I like my breeches,” Hara whispered, still wide-eyed and oddly charmed by the archer’s simple but poignant explanation.

“She makes an excellent, albeit convoluted point, Herald,” said Solas. She looked at him in amazement, astounded that he of all people would be the one to encourage her to accept the strange woman in front of them.

“A cause like the Inquisition can only thrive with the steadfast support of so-called ‘little people.’ It seems she can provide a connection to the common people of Ferelden and Orlais. The confluence of her network has the potential to be significantly impactful, each additional relationship gradually building in influence, like many snowflakes that fall to snap a tree branch. I suggest we accept her.” He smiled a bit and Hara wondered if he was pleased with his little monologue.

Sera looked at Solas with trepidation, taking in the shape of his ears and chewing a bit on her lip. Hara wondered if she was processing the support of two “elfy” people and was unsure how to respond. “Right, Baldy,” she said slowly. “Snowflakes or whatever.”

“Listen, Herald,” Sera said, turning to face Hara once more, “I’ve got some loose ends to tie up in Orlais, but I’ll meet you in Haven soon. I want to get everything back to normal. Like you?”

Hara shook her hand firmly and grinned up at her. “Please, call me Hara. I’m looking forward to working together, Sera.” 

She really, truly was. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one! *DJ Khaled voice* 
> 
> So, I'd like some feedback from y'all. I have two additional chapters written already, but I'm unsure if it's better to post them all at once or to add them over time... What would you prefer? Let me know your thoughts in the comments!
> 
> xx camp
> 
> PS: let me know what you think of the short Solas POV at the end here.

After securing a strange alliance with a Red Jenny and experiencing an odd encounter with none other than Grand Enchanter Fiona herself on their way out of the city, Hara and her party returned to Haven. She spent much of the three-day ride back up into the mountains considering the impromptu meeting; something about it felt so _wrong_. The enchanter had approached them quietly as they prepared to leave the city’s gates and asked them to consider utilizing the rebel mages in their quest to seal the Breach.

Hara was immediately suspicious; she wondered why Fiona had chosen to approach them _now_ when they’d been rebuked in their efforts to make contact with the mages during their long sojourn to the Hinterlands. _Fenedhis,_ Hara thought, _I’m sure we killed more than a few of her people._ Fiona said something vague about ‘seeing her for what she was,’ causing a pit to settle in her stomach as she considered the possibility that the Grand Enchanter had been watching them while they put out fires around Fereldan. It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Cassandra shared her suspicion and was keen to discuss the situation with Leliana once they returned to Haven.

As they rode through the gates, one of Leliana’s scouts approached them. “Herald,” the woman called in greeting, “The Nightingale wishes to see you immediately.” Hara nodded her agreement and the scout disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived; it seemed she, Cassandra, and Leliana were of one mind, and she was certain the Nightingale had been receiving frequent updates on their progress as they rode back into the mountains. Hara swung out of the saddle of the dapple grey paint she’d ridden once more and gratefully handed her reins to a nearby stablehand before reaching up to help Cassandra down from the large, brown Fereldan forder she chosen for herself. The Seeker looked a bit surprised at her offer but accepted her hand down from the horse nevertheless.

“See, Seeker, chivalry isn’t dead,” Varric called in Cassandra’s direction, “Scarecrow’s a perfect gentleman. Can’t say as much for her damn horse.” Hara’s horse had a bizarre propensity for biting Varric’s pony directly on its ass, much to the dwarf’s (and the pony’s) very loud (and very frequent) consternation. Varric didn’t know she snuck the dapple grey a sugar cube every time it happened, but she was sure Solas was onto her; however, he hadn’t revealed her treachery and she considered it a win in her corner. He’d grown distant and formal since they’d left the city and, as with the foot wraps, she was beginning to question her sanity, unsure whether she’d imagined him grasp her hand during the confrontation with Lord Seeker Lucius. 

Hara decided she’d extend the same “chivalrous” treatment to her dwarven companion, impatient though she knew he was from their ride back to Haven and pressing as her meeting with the Nightingale seemed.

“Would you like help down as well, _da’asha_?” Hara queried, gripping his pony’s reins. “Here,” she said, swiftly removing her overcoat and laying it at his pony’s hooves, “Now you won’t muss your boots as you dismount, fair dwarf.” Hara’s eyes twinkled as she mocked a low bow, twirling her hand theatrically before offering it up to Varric.

“Da’asha?” Varric asked, the words sounding flat and resolutely foreign in his mouth as he regarded her hand distrustfully.

“Little lady,” Solas translated from atop his mount, and though he managed to keep a serious face, his eyes were twinkling with amusement, crinkled pleasantly around the corners as he bit back a smile. 

“I’ll have you know I’m exceedingly masculine,” The dwarf practically barked as he stuck out his gloriously maned chest, and even Cassandra was laughing openly now. Hara shrugged her shoulders and turned her back on him, swiftly retrieving her overcoat before his pony stepped on the (albeit already quite sad-looking) leather garment.

He struggled down from the pony without assistance and was no less irritable once his feet were back on solid ground. Solas must have dismounted from his own stark white stallion while Hara had been politely ignoring Varric’s graceless dismount. He was whispering thanks in Elvhen to his mount as he led it back towards the stables with a fond look on his face. Horses stabled, she looked to Cassandra. “To the Chantry?” Hara asked, and the Seeker nodded seriously. 

“You have fun with that,” Varric said flatly before practically stomping up the path to his tent. A wave of guilt rolled over her as she considered whether she’d taken things too far by goading her mount to nip so frequently at his own and by teasing him just now.

The guilt dissipated as soon as she recalled a particularly colorful moment during their journey back to Haven.

Varric made no effort to hide his incessant note-taking, keen as he was to take down the tale of the ‘Blessed Herald of Andraste,’ so naturally, she rifled through his pack to read the section he’d been furiously scribbling down on the second evening of their return journey. Varric had described her as possessing _spectacularly heaving breasts after a long, hard battle_ and though she’d been a bit flattered, flat-chested as she was, she’d been exponentially more pissed. Hara held his manuscript hostage, threatening to dump the entire ream of parchment into the campfire until he agreed to change it. Cassandra looked ready to help her, shouting something or another about there being “no more chivalrous men in Thedas,” hence his comment about chivalry just now. Solas had watched Hara and Cassandra berate the dwarf with a bemused look on his face as he sketched something in front of the campfire.

Hara gave Solas a small wave as Cassandra practically drug her back toward the Chantry, eager as she was to engage with the advisors and share a first-hand account of their journey to Orlais. He returned her wave with a small, inscrutable nod and she felt a surge of aggravation at the impassive gesture. Polite, still, but unfeeling, and Hara wondered if they’d ever form anything like a friendship, caught in this dance of approach-retreat-avoid as they were. It made her want draw his ire. She’d resolutely followed a philosophy of scorn over pity for most of her life, and now it seemed it to have evolved to include apathy as well.

As Cassandra barreled forward into the Chantry, Hara hot on her heels, she discovered Sister Leliana, Commander Cullen, and Lady Josephine already waiting for them. “It’s good you’ve returned,” called Josephine in greeting. “We have heard of your encounters and the Herald’s, ah… rather varied efforts at recruitment.”

“Yes,” sighed Cassandra, “It was a rather… eventful journey.” The Seeker pinched the bridge of her nose and Hara wondered whether she was thinking of Lord Seeker Lucius or Sera. _Both, probably both,_ she decided.

“It’s a shame the Templars have abandoned their senses as well as the capital,” Cullen added, gritting his teeth. Hara wanted to reach out and shake the man and clenched her fists at her sides to stop herself from doing just that; how he could remain so… entrenched in the order, so convinced of their ability to do good despite all evidence to the contrary was daft.

“It was pathetic,” Hara practically spat, her mouth working considerably faster than her brain. It seemed she had more control over her appendages than her tongue. Josephine regarded her with an alarmed look as Cullen narrowed his eyes. Leliana observed the interaction with interest.

Unsurprisingly, Cullen made to defend them, inhaling sharply. “You don’t understand—“ he began.

“She is not wrong,” Cassandra interrupted with steel in her voice. “Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember.” It truly shocked Hara to hear Cassandra come to her defense and she stared at her open-mouthed for a time, only remembering to close it as Leliana began to speculate.

“Yes,” the spymaster responded, her tone as dangerous as it was curious, “He has taken the order somewhere… But to do what? My reports have been… very odd.” 

“We must look into it,” Cullen insisted, “I’m certain not everyone in the Order will support the Lord Seeker.”

“That is not what I saw,” Hara responded, her mouth working of its own accord once more. _Gods,_ she willed herself, _Stop_. She did not. “Even the Templars who were loyal to the Chantry followed him like so many misguided ducklings trailing stupidly after someone who is not their mother.”

Cullen looked so angry Hara thought he might hit her. Josephine physically interjected herself back into the conversation, walking casually between the two; she formed a barrier between Hara and the Commander in a way that was so diplomatically practiced Hara might’ve thought the movement natural and benign… if she hadn’t seen a brief flash of panic on the ambassador’s face before she’d done it. “Or,” Josephine began, taking a deep breath and speaking slowly, “The Herald could simply go to Redcliffe to meet with the mages instead.” 

“You think the mage rebellion is more united?” Cullen asked and he looked so baffled it seemed his anger had subsided for the moment. “It could be ten times worse!” No, there it was. Back again. 

“Then stop bickering and make a decision,” Hara snapped. _Damn her mouth._ She reached up to rub at her temples. This was, truthfully, giving her a massive headache. 

“I agree,” Cassandra said, surprising her for the second time that afternoon.

“I do not think we should discount the rebel mages,” Josephine continued tactfully. “Their assistance with the Breach could be invaluable, and considering what you’ve both shared about the state of the Templar Order…” She trailed off thoughtfully but Hara was certain she had intentionally stopped herself before she said something to draw Cullen’s ire again. Hara suddenly wondered if she could ever learn to handle other people so masterfully. _Doubtful._

“They are powerful, Ambassador,” Cassandra replied in agreement, “But more desperate than you realize.” More sense from Cassandra, thank Andraste’s left tit.

“Yes, I agree,” Hara added, still surprised to find herself so in sync with the Seeker, “I, too, am concerned about the Grand Enchanter’s invitation. It was… oddly timed and oddly worded. I would like to have more information before we walk into some sort of a trap.”

“Then you agree that the Templars are the better option,” Cullen interjected irritably, though there was a sudden pain in his expression, his eyes narrowed in a wince he smoothed away with almost astonishing speed. Something about him had changed in their absence. He was hurting in some way, she was sure of it.

It didn’t make her any more patient. “I’d rather set myself on fire than ally with the order at this point,” Hara hissed, remembering a Templar sharply crack his fist against a Chantry mother’s jaw. 

“Then the Inquisition needs agents in more places,” Cassandra said in earnest, reaching out to grasp Hara’s shoulder firmly, her other hand extending to rest on Leliana’s. “That is something you can both help with.”

 * * *

Leliana bade her to return to the Hinterlands in search of a Grey Warden named Blackwall while she collected more information about the rebel mage stronghold in Redcliffe, so return she did, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas in tow. The spymaster was concerned  about the disappearance of the Grey Wardens and had reports that a lone Warden named Blackwall was recruiting in the area. Leliana thought he might be able to shed some light on the order’s abrupt absence. Hara agreed that the situation with the Wardens was odd—though the order was mysterious by nature, it was baffling that they would disappear so suddenly without a trace. Suspiciously timed as well. 

Varric’s mood was not improved by their quick turnaround time and even Solas looked a bit dejected when Hara had told them they would be leaving for the Hinterlands at first light. She supposed it couldn’t be helped. Cassandra was right; they needed agents in more places and this seemed the best strategy for building the influence necessary to approach either the mages or the Templars while Leliana’s spies gathered additional intelligence about the mage rebellion in Redcliffe.

They had made camp above Lake Luthias after a day of unsuccessfully hunting for the Warden and would resume their search in the morning. Hara was presently avoiding sleep, staring up at the stars from beside the campfire as she idly wound and unwound the sections of her braid while Solas took the third watch. She could hear Cassandra’s soft breathing, occasional murmurs in her sleep from her bedroll beside the fire— _Anthony_ —she said, and Hara wondered if he were a lost lover at the pained quality of the Seeker’s voice. Varric was snoring impressively, as per usual, slumped over beside the fire with a quill clutched in his hand. Hara knew she ought to wake him and send him to his bedroll—he’d have a terrible ache in his neck in the morning—but the sight was so endearing that should couldn’t bring herself to do it.

She could feel Solas watching her and wondered if he were about to scold her for her restlessness. She popped an elfroot leaf in her mouth and chewed on it idly on the off-chance it had relaxation properties in addition to its utility in healing. Though she continued to stare absentmindedly into the fire, she clenched her jaw; she could still feel the weight of his gaze. They’d barely spoken on the road and it seemed he was keen to maintain the frustratingly polite distance between them. She snapped.

“What?” She hissed quietly so as not to wake their companions. She was gratified to see the tips of his ears color the same red that graced Cassandra’s face so often.

“I have said before that you are a liability when exhausted,” Solas responded, though she was pleased to hear some chagrin in his voice even as he tried to scold her.

“You have,” Hara confirmed, narrowing her eyes at him. She knew where he was going with this and wasn’t particularly keen to follow.

“You are still not sleeping,” he continued, narrowing his own blue orbs in a twin gesture.

“I am, too,” Hara replied, closing the distance between them as she quietly made her way across the campsite, further from Varric and Cassandra so as to not disturb their slumber. She looked up at him from underneath her thick lashes. “You’re in the Faaade, hahren,” Hara whispered, eyes wide, wiggling her fingers at him in jest, “And I am but an illusion.”

His soft laugh surprised her. “Would that you were, Hara,” Solas murmured, “And perhaps the Breach would be an illusion as well.” Hearing her name surprised her even more. He had only said it once before. The memory bubbled up in her mind. _‘Ma neral, Hara_ , as she thanked him for wrapping her feet. His comment about the Breach piqued her interest. 

“Solas,” she started slowly, and he looked a bit surprised to hear his own name in return, “What do you think created the Breach?”

“An artifact of immense magical power,” he replied, looking oddly pleased at her question and simultaneously… nervous?

“Surely anything powerful enough to tear the Veil asunder and place this cursed mark on my hand must be ancient,” she mused, looking up at night’s sky in thought. She could not see him swallow thickly at her response.

“What drew you to that conclusion?” He asked, his voice low.

“Well,” Hara pondered on how to frame her response for a long moment. She was ignorant of most things magical and truthfully, this was just a theory. “I imagine that if such power were readily available today, we would’ve experienced something similarly cataclysmic in recent past. Tevinter would’ve conquered the South by now,” she finished with a roll of her eyes.

“Why ancient and not new?” Solas asked so rapidly Hara almost felt like she was being interrogated. Hara gave him a displeased look and he schooled his features back into a passive, neutral arrangement. It was not an improvement.

“Because if whatever created the Breach was some sort of new magical development, there would have been increasingly prominent disturbances across Thedas as its power grew,” She responded, hoping she was making sense. “Magic this powerful—“ she gave her hand a bitter look and waved it vaguely at the Breach above them, “Could not possibly come to bear all at once without someone noticing _something_ first. So the logical conclusion must be that whatever created the Breach existed before we were around to notice it. Surely it must predate the Chantry.”

“And why must it predate the Chantry?” Solas asked in a hushed whisper, though he had leaned towards her, his interest and excitement palpable even as he struggled to maintain an impassive expression.

“If the Chantry knew about this magic, they would’ve locked away whoever developed it,” Hara answered bitterly. “Can you imagine a Circle mage, locked in a tower and under constant Templar surveillance, free to practice the kind of magic necessary to create such an object? ” She paused as she thought of the Templars in the Free Marches. Wycome’s had not been as harsh as Kirkwall’s, but she heard whispers of the unbearable treatment the mages in their towers were forced to endure. Elflings in the alienage grew up with the constant fear of developing some sort of magical talent. “Even in Tevinter, it would cause a massive disturbance as magisters crawled over one another to claim it.”

 “You seem displeased with the Circles,” Solas said, abruptly changing directions in their conversation.

“The Circles are bullshit,” Hara practically spat. “They breed fear and hatred of something that should be seen as a gift. Your magic, for instance,” she continued, her tone softer as she looked into his eyes, “I—” She flushed. “ _We_ would not be alive without it.” Her gaze wandered to Varric and Cassandra’s sleeping forms as she considered how frequently Solas’ magic had saved their lives as well as her own.

“And if I were taken to a Circle, _lethallan_?” Solas inquired, his tone subdued.

“They would have to go through me first.” 

* * *

 She could not know how this admission touched him; truthfully, he had not meant to call her _friend_ , but the term tumbled from his traitorous mouth before he could stop it. Solas noted as her eyes widened in pleasant surprise and knew he needed to withdraw.

He resolutely placed more distance between them, even as he turned the conversation over and over again in his mind. She could not know how he thought about her words even as they made contact with Warden Blackwall; how deeply he considered her surprisingly intuitive explanation of the magic—his magic—that had created the Breach on their journey back to Haven.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somebody stop me! 
> 
> Or not. Either way, I'm dyiiiiing to hear your reactions about the end of this one. As always, I relish your kudos and comments. They are (quite literally) sustaining me at this point. 
> 
> x camp

The onlookers milling about Haven’s gates were intensely curious about the stocky, bearded man in Warden regalia they’d brought back with them. Many of the recruits whispered openly to one another about him— _a Warden! Even a Warden has joined the Inquisition’s ranks… I knew I made the right decision coming here!_ —and Blackwall seemed uncomfortable with so many eyes searching his face. For such a solid man, he seemed to visibly shrink from the attention; Hara thought to do him a kindness and spare him from the loud whispers she’d become accustomed to.

“Listen, Blackwall,” she began, touching his arm lightly to draw his attention. She oriented him towards Leliana’s tent near the Chantry. “I’m sure you’d like to get settled into Haven, but there’s something I’d like you to do first.” She bade him to share what little information he’d been able to provide about the Wardens with the Spymaster. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the depth of his discomfort seemed to increase.

“Yes, my lady,” he agreed, hesitation clearly evident in his voice. He looked to be steeling himself to make contact with the Spymaster. Hara knew Leliana’s reputation traveled and that she was as feared as she was respected, but this seemed a little much. _Andraste’s ass, how long has this man been in the wilderness_? She idly wondered if recruiting felt at all like socializing. _Probably not_ , she decided, given Blackwall’s hesitant feelings towards engagement with others.She decided to do him another kindness. Before he could walk further away from her, she reached out to touch his shoulder.

“One last thing, ser,” Hara began. She watched the Warden swallow, could see his throat bob up and down in nervous anticipation.

“Yes, my lady?” He queried, and Hara swore she saw sweat beginning to bead around his forehead.

“Join me in the tavern when you’re done,” she requested with a broad grin, hoping to put him at ease, “You’ve got the look of a man who needs a drink.”

Blackwall smiled openly, tension visibly draining from his face. “That’s an order I’m glad to obey,” he said, chuckling slightly. “I’ll see you shortly, Lady Herald.”

She spun on her heels to face Varric and Solas. Cassandra had already wandered off, no doubt to make contact with Commander Cullen, concerned as she’d been for the state of their recruits in their long absence to Val Royeaux, the Hinterlands and back. She knew she ought to join them—she’d be needed at the war table, and the advisors would be clamoring to discuss whether to extend an alliance to the mages or the Templars given the steady influence they’d built in their recent journeys—but she just couldn’t make herself do it. Hara searched for an excuse to avoid her responsibilities.

“Tavern time!” She announced suddenly, tugging Varric by the collar of his coat in excitement about her sudden decision. The dwarf would be the perfect diversion and she was eager to spend a few hours in repose before she was inevitably dragged back to the war table to make decisions she had no business making. She was not keen to face Commander Cullen—despite her misgivings about their brief meeting with Grand Enchanter Fiona, she intended to argue for an alliance with the mages, especially now that she had more intelligence about the goings on in Redcliffe thanks to Leliana’s agents. It seemed the mages they’d fought in the Hinterlands were mad apostates drunk on power and that Fiona had withdrawn her people to Redcliffe, away from the fighting, with the permission of King Alistair and Queen Anora. It was considerably more decorum than the Templars had demonstrated, and Hara knew all-too-well what it felt like to be scared and seeking shelter in an unknown land. But before she made her argument for the alliance… Well, she had full intentions of making herself scarce until tomorrow morning.

“Hey, stop that!” Varric admonished, swatting gently at the hand Hara still had wrapped around his collar. A few more of the clasps on his coat had come undone (those not already strategically unbuttoned to hint at his gloriously maned chest, that is). “You can’t undress a gentleman in public!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect your virtue,” Hara reassured in mock seriousness, “Chivalrous, remember?” She noted Solas watching the interaction with an amused look on his face and decided she’d try her hand at re-engaging with him. He’d remained infuriatingly passive, detached, and polite as they’d searched the Hinterlands for signs of the Warden. Well, aside from the scolding he’d given her about her propensity for restlessness and their brief academic conversation about the Breach afterwards. Perhaps he’d be different now that they were back in Haven; his moods practically shifted with the scenery.

Hara allowed herself to hope. “Coming, _hahren_?” She decided to ask, “Or are you too old and in need of a nap?”

“I believe I will join you,” Solas replied, and the smile he gave her sent an odd shiver down her spine. She shook her head slightly, shaking off the unbidden sensation. “Perhaps it is time I challenged Master Tethras to a game of Wicked Grace. How many decks of cards shall I bring?” He asked seriously, “Three? Four?”

Solas’ teasing caught her a bit off guard and she felt a peculiar surge of sentimentality towards him. She knew she hadn’t imagined the distance he’d put between them, but maybe there really was a friendship developing after all. _Lethallan_ , he’d called her. Perhaps it was true.

“I’d reckon on six,” Hara replied in earnest, “Unless we get him considerably drunk before we play. Then I imagine we can do with five.”

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” Varric questioned, an indignant look on his face.

“Not until you teach me to cheat as spectacularly as you do, my friend,” Hara grinned in response, slinging an arm around his shoulders affectionately. She’d become less jarred by occasional physical contact and was beginning to enjoy showing affection for some of her companions with small touches. Namely and almost exclusively Varric, so maybe she hadn’t made as much progress as she’d thought. She still hadn’t worked up to something as personal as an embrace, but nevertheless, she figured she was learning how to give and receive casual touch again.

“So, to the tavern, then?” Varric asked.

Hara’s stomach grumbled loudly and she was suddenly aware of how hungry she was. But, she’d been longing for a bath as well… She thought for a long moment about how to prioritize her time. “I’ll meet you there in an hour,” she said, “I’m going to beg Josephine for a bath.”

“Excellent idea,” Varric said seriously, making a show of taking a deep breath and crinkling his nose in mock disgust in her direction, “You smell like your horse, Scarecrow.”

“No wonder you find me so irresistible,” Hara teased and practically ran up the stairs to the Chantry before Varric could work out a devastating quip in response.

She pushed her way into the Chantry and gave a polite nod to Madame Vivienne—apparently she’d arrived from Val Royeaux before they had, which wasn’t at all surprising considering they’d left for the Hinterlands almost immediately after returning to Haven. However, they were still missing one rather brash Red Jenny, likely tying up loose ends before she made her way to the remote mountain village. She walked swiftly to Josephine’s office and knocked on it with a short rap of her knuckles.

The researcher named Minaeve opened the door in the ambassador’s stead. “Oh!” Hara called in surprise, “Excuse me, Minaeve! I hope I’m not interrupting your studies.”

“Not at all,” Minaeve replied easily, opening the door to allow Hara access to the office she shared with the ambassador. “Please, come in.”

Hara quickly rifled through her pockets—she’d collected quite a few items from the mages, templars, and demons they’d fought in the Hinterlands that she’d been meaning to deliver to the researcher. “I have something for you,” Hara started, placing the slightly morbid collection of trinkets on the researcher’s table, “Several somethings, actually.”

“I see that,” Minaeve said pleasantly, smiling down at Hara, “Thank you for these. I am sure they’ll be most helpful.”

Hara beamed up at her. “Glad to be useful,” she replied honestly. She was truly appreciative of any insight Minaeve might be able to give her into modifying her fighting strategies against the numerous things that wanted to kill her. “Thank you for all your hard work.”

“Oh, Herald! You’ve returned!” cried a voice. Josephine. The ambassador had quietly opened the door to their shared office and slipped in as she’d been talking with Minaeve, omnipresent writing tablet in hand, a fresh red candle blazing brightly in the relative darkness of the windowless room.

“Just the woman I was looking for,” Hara replied in greeting, suddenly feeling somewhat nervous about requesting hot water and toiletries from the Antivan. Asking for things had become marginally easier, particularly when they were necessary for her companions or the Inquisition’s general progress, but this was a purely frivolous request. She realized her cheeks were turning red as the ambassador looked at her in polite expectation.

“I know this is a frivolous request,” Hara began slowly, “So please feel free to reject it…”

“How may I be of service to you, Herald?” Josephine asked patiently.

“I was wondering if it would be too much trouble to ask for a hot bath and some oils, preferably lavender, if we have it,” Hara rushed out before she could convince herself otherwise.

“No trouble at all, my lady!” Josephine cried and something like excitement glimmered in her eyes. “I shall arrange for a tub to be delivered to your cabin directly.”

“Oh, that’s too much trouble Madame Ambassador, I’m happy to bathe with our soldiers,” Hara protested. “I know it’s not the usual time, so I thought I might need to ask to have some water heated.” She really was happy to bathe with the troops. Hara wasn’t particularly body conscious—years with the Dalish had cured her of any shyness she might have about being nude in front of other women, and thanks to her clanmates’ (not so gentle) teasing, she knew she was nothing much to look at. _Come now, da’len, how is it possible you’re so flat-chested with an arse like that? You just can’t seem to get any fat on your ribs, can you? It must go straight to your hips!_

“Not at all, Herald,” Josephine argued gently, “Give me but a moment and I will have supplies sent to your private quarters.”

Hara bit her lip awkwardly and nodded in the Antivan’s direction. “Alright,” she said slowly, “Thank you.” Josephine bid her to linger for a few minutes after she’d intercepted a servant, whispering instructions in her casual yet polite manner. Hara talked idly with Josephine for ten or fifteen minutes more before the ambassador waved her gently back to her quarters.

Hara was delighted to find an oversized tub had been delivered to her cabin, filled to the brim with steaming hot water. She stripped in record time and submerged herself, careful not to spill any of the water out. She groaned with happiness as she felt the tension in her muscles begin to dissipate somewhat, reaching for a nearby bottle of oil to work through her long, tangled hair. As she massaged the oil into her scalp—lavender, as she’d requested—she realized she needed to shear the left side of her head again. She wondered if someone might have a razor she could borrow. Varric was rather scruffy but his stubble never seemed to get much longer, so she figured he must have one stashed somewhere. Blackwall’s thick facial hair hinted at a distinct aversion to razors. Maybe Solas… As she washed, she found herself wondering if he shaved his head or if it were some sort of magic. _Probably magic_ , she decided, given that he never seemed to develop stubble and he didn’t look nearly old enough to be organically bald, as much as she teased him about his age.

The water had practically gone cold by the time she’d finished. She dried herself with a towel someone had left on her bed and made to open her dresser drawer. To her delight, there were a number of clean clothes there, ones she hadn’t seen before. She pulled out an oversized white linen tunic and a tailored, olive green pair of breeches, staring at them in wonder. She was sure they were hand me downs, but it had been so long since she’d worn something different that she almost whooped with delight. She pulled a fresh pair of smalls and a breastband from the drawer and dressed quickly, eager to join her companions at the tavern. She thought about braiding her hair but left it loose, having dried it as much as possible with the towel. She hoped she didn’t freeze too badly outside and quickly donned Solas’ foot wraps, grateful for their heating enchantment as she walked the distance from her cabin to the tavern.

By the time she arrived, Varric and Solas were engaged in a rather intense-looking game of Wicked Grace under Blackwall’s watchful gaze. He seemed to be supplying some sort of commentary as the dwarf and elf took turns revealing their cards; he was even leaning over Solas’ shoulder in excitement. Hara sat down next to Varric and smiled at Solas and Blackwall across the table. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she whispered to the Warden as Varric made to draw another card.

“You just missed a hell of a game, Herald,” Blackwall said, amusement in his eyes and a broad smile on his face as he took in her freshly laundered appearance. “Solas is quite the card player. I think he’s about to shame Master Tethras for a second time.”

“Why aren’t you playing with them?” Hara murmured in question. She had no idea why she felt compelled to be so quiet—she was sure she couldn’t be any more distracting than the boisterous soldiers a few tables over.

“I am terrified of Solas,” the Warden whispered back and pulled a frightened face. Hara let out a hearty laugh, her illusions of quietude shattered. She noted three empty mugs around the table and gathered them in her hands, deciding she’d ask Flissa for a refill for the men as she retrieved her own beverage. She wandered back to the table with four mugs precariously balanced in her hands and a scrap of dark brown bread hanging from her mouth, having begged a snack from Flissa as she prepared the evening meal.

It seemed the game had ended in her absence and, judging by Varric’s irritated expression and Solas’ smug smile, the elf had won again. She quickly passed around the beverages and sat down next to Varric once more.

“To soothe your wounded pride,” Hara said as she handed Varric his mug. He grumbled a thanks in response.

They jumped easily into a conversation that carried on for the next few hours, casually discussing the state of the Inquisition and even sharing tales of past travels. Solas talked at length about a rather boisterous celebration he’d once witnessed in the Fade and Varric regaled them with tales of his favorite tavern in Kirkwall, The Hanged Man. Many of his stories involved scantily clad women and he waggled his eyebrows dramatically at a barmaid who’d interrupted them during one particularly lascivious tale. Blackwall shared a story about his time competing in the Grand Tourney alongside a chevalier that Hara listened to with rapt attention. She provided no tales of her own.

“So, Herald. How did you wind up in this mess?” Blackwall asked, shifting the direction of their conversation after their fourth round of ale. “I must say, I was expecting you’d be more…” he trailed off awkwardly.

“Human?” Hara supplied helpfully, a wry smile spreading across her face.

“Well, yes,” Blackwall answered, looking sheepish. Hara thought he might’ve colored somewhat though it was difficult to tell through the Warden’s glorious facial hair.

“Ha!” She barked a short laugh and raised her mug of ale in his direction. “You and everyone else I’ve met. At least _you’re_ honest. Cheers to that!” Hara took a long pull from her mug as Varric chortled, shaking his head. His fingers twitched a bit and drew her attention. She idly wondered if he was searching for his quill, hoping to catalogue a bit of banter between the ‘Herald of Andraste’ and her companions. So long as he left her bosom out of it, she was content. He didn’t know anything of note about her anyway.

“I meant no offense, my lady! I shouldn’t have said anything.” Blackwall fixed her with a curious look, as though he were trying to make sense of the golden branches of her vallaslin. He had the look of a man who knew he should stop speaking but couldn’t manage to convince his mouth to obey his brain. “Truthfully… I don’t know much about your people. What was it like, growing up Dalish?”

Hara grinned. She knew it was wicked, but she’d been drinking and it had been so long since she’d had any fun, and besides, Blackwall seemed a man in need of a good laugh. She made a show of looking this way and that about the tavern, noting Solas watching her with thinly veiled interest on the opposite side of the table. She leaned across the table and made to beckon Blackwall towards her, hooking her finger at him to come closer. He did, slowly and with a complex look on his face, something Hara assessed as a mixture of confusion, hesitancy, and interest. Hara leaned in towards him and was vaguely aware that the neck of her loose tunic had fallen open; he’d likely be able to see her breast band if he tried hard enough, not that she had anything much to look at. She was too close to see his face redden, but she was gloriously aware of his discomfort nevertheless. Hara leaned just a bit closer to him, her lips now brushing lightly against the Warden’s ear. Her eyes locked with Solas’ and the look he gave her was so intense—something like curiosity, impatience, and…jealousy?—that she almost changed her mind.

Almost.

“I’m not Dalish,” she breathed, just loud enough for her companions to hear. Blackwall practically jumped in his seat as he shifted back away from her, giving her a curious look that seemed to travel from her vallaslin to her mouth and back up again. She leaned back in her chair and placed her arms squarely behind her head, fixing him with a mischievous grin.

Varric snorted into his mug loudly. He leaned back a bit to take it all in, eyes traveling over the scene in front of him before they finally rested on her vallaslin. His fingers twitched again, and now Hara was sure he was cursing himself for his lack of writing instruments. “Tell that to your face, Scarecrow,” he responded, shaking his head at her, amusement and curiosity written all over his face.

“What _are_ you then?” Blackwall replied in wonder. He seemed genuinely perplexed by her, though Hara was sure she read something more in his gaze, too. Attraction. She wasn’t the least bit interested but it never hurt to have a bit of fun.

“A pain in the ass, mostly,” Hara replied with a smirk. “To your good health, Ser Warden.” She raised her mug to him again and downed the last of the amber liquid.

“I hope an explanation about your vallaslin is forthcoming,” Solas said, his tone practiced and light but his gaze just as intense as it had been before. It had shifted into something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“Her what?” Asked Blackwall, an expression of confusion on his face as he turned to face the elf seated next to him.

“Vallaslin,” Solas repeated impatiently, as if he’d rather be prying secrets out of Hara than explaining Elvhen to the spectacularly bearded Warden next to him. “The Dalish believe their facial tattoos demonstrate dedication to a particular Elvhen god or goddess. Hara is marked for Mythal, the All-Mother and goddess of protection.” He couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice and Hara figured this was just one more Dalish tradition he abhorred.

“And vengeance,” Hara added, a touch of bitterness in her voice. She hated discussing her vallaslin. Solas gave her a surprised look though he nodded in agreement. There was a long moment of silence between them and Hara could feel three sets of eyes trained on her face.

“Well?” Varric questioned after a long moment, “What’s the story, then?”

Hara sighed, feeling suddenly very sober and regretting the moment of fun she’d had as she teased Blackwall. She should’ve just made something up about growing up Dalish—she’d seen (and had tried to help raise, much to their parents’ consternation) a handful of Dalish children born in the time she’d spent with Clan Lavellan.

“I’m not sure a story is in the cards for tonight,” she said quickly, faking a yawn, trying to beg off somehow.

“Come on, Scarecrow, you wound me,” Varric said, placing his hand to his breast to demonstrate how deeply hurt he felt. Hara knew he was hamming it up, but something about his expression tugged at her heartstrings. “I’ve told you plenty about Kirkwall and I know next to nothing about you!”

“You know plenty about me, Master Tethras, what with all your note-taking,” Hara replied weakly, “Shite at identifying hallucinogenic plants, abysmal at cards, rather fond of ale…”

“Perhaps you’ll wager a secret,” Solas said, his tone smooth and… something more. Dangerous. A shiver went down Hara’s spine as he grasped the cards that laid forgotten on the corner of the table. He expertly shuffled the deck in front of her and she felt terribly akin to a rabbit in a wolf’s jaws.

“Only if you’ll wager one of your own,” Hara replied after a long moment, punctuating her challenge with a raised eyebrow. Even in the unlikely event that she won, she knew he’d never agree to this, that she would be safe from their questioning now. Solas was as vague about his past as she was.

“We have an agreement,” Solas said, and extended his hand for Hara to shake. She stared at his long, elegant fingers for a moment, remembering how his hand had felt grasped in hers in the market in Val Royeaux, how he’d tightened his grip on her to keep her from doing something stupid as the Lord Seeker ran his mouth.

Hesitantly, she reached out to shake his hand. “This is a terrible idea,” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else, as he swiftly dealt the cards.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (っ˘ڡ˘ς) miiiildly NSFW and includes a rather extensive Solas POV. Let me know what you think of it!!
> 
> Elvhen translations at the end!
> 
> xx camp
> 
> P.S. Bonus points for anyone who catches a moderately hilarious movie reference.

Hara lost, of course. Spectacularly.

“I should’ve known that was going to happen,” she snapped irritably at Solas, who was regarding her with a rather smug look. He had utterly trounced her in record time. They’d played a scant three rounds before he drew the Angel of Death and revealed a dizzying array of Serpents: deceit, avarice, decay, and sadness. The irony was not lost on Hara as she regarded the hand laid before her. He looked quite pleased with his victory but also… hungry.

“Why didn’t you try to stop me, Varric?” Hara turned to the dwarf, accusations tumbling from her lips, “You _know_ how bad I am at this.” Blackwall watched the scene with unconcealed amusement, his broad grin visible even underneath the thick hair of his beard.

“Hey, calm down, Scarecrow,” Varric said, his tone teasing as he held his hands in front of his chest in a defensive manner, “You’re a grown woman. Who am I to dissuade you from making bad choices?”

“A piss poor friend, that’s who,” Hara responded, but she lightened her tone and knew he could read the jest in her voice. It had been her decision, yes—a spectacularly bad one, but she’d hardly been coerced.

She took a deep breath and resigned herself to sharing some part of her story with her companions—heavily edited, of course, but she could hardly take the wager back now. She thought for a long moment about what secret she might share that would still allow her to guard her heart, if she could manage to talk about Wycome or the alienage without talking about her grandfather.

Solas’ look had grown almost predatory and she knew she was going to have to do something to make this more tolerable. _More alcohol_ , she thought to herself. She handed her mug to Varric, who accepted it with a curious look on his face.“Ale first. Then a secret.” The dwarf practically sprinted to Flissa at the back of the tavern and Hara was sure it was the quickest she’d ever seen him move outside of battle. The dwarf was back in record time with four fresh mugs of Flissa’s brew and a shit-eating grin on his face.

“I said one secret,” Hara said slowly as she accepted the drink from Varric, “Of my choice,” she stressed, “And I didn’t specify that it would be given today.”

“Dealer’s choice, _da’len_ ,” Solas argued slyly as he received his own mug. “You specified none of this before we made our agreement. I say the secret comes now, and I will choose the topic it is related to.” She decided to revise her opinion of Solas’ drinking. Perhaps she did not like it after all.

Hara bit her lip and fought the urge to scream. She was frustrated with herself for making this stupid deal with the apostate and for not clearly specifying the terms, but she supposed there was nothing to be done about it now. She really did want to get along with Solas and the rest of her companions, and going back on her word when they’d shook on it seemed a poor way to repay them for the evening’s diversion… And an even poorer way to build connection. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them, per se—it was just so fucking _hard_ to talk about the alienage, her grandfather, her tense relationship with the clan… It hurt. A lot. She hadn’t made a real connection with another person in over a decade. When she first arrived in Clan Lavellan and tried to open up about her past to her clanmates, they’d looked at her with such… pity. She couldn’t bear it, so she pushed them away; misery, it seemed, did not love company after all.

 _The only way out is through_ , she thought, reminded of the phrase her grandfather often used when they were facing one insurmountable challenge after another—hunger, poverty, being woefully underpaid by human merchants, having their goods “requisitioned” by Templars—name any event and she guaranteed he’d applied the philosophy to it. She took a deep breath and steadied herself.

“ _Ven_ , Solas,” she muttered, downing her ale as she looked him in the eyes. She tried to pretend Blackwall and Varric weren’t watching them carefully, eager to see what would next unfold, and it was easier to pretend if she concentrated exclusively on him. If she looked hard enough, she could imagine her grandfather’s cornflower blue eyes in substitution, so unlike her amber ones aside from the odd flecks of cerulean around her irises. Maybe she could make believe that she was baring some part of her soul to him instead.

Perhaps it was her acquiescence or her use of Elvhen, but Solas’ eyes widened slightly in surprise and darkened almost imperceptibly. His tongue darted out and ran along his lower lip. He looked every bit the hungry wolf. “I will have the secret of your vallaslin, Hara,” he said, and she almost barked a nervous laugh in relief. She should’ve guessed. That, she could surely manage without giving away too much.

Hara chewed her lip thoughtfully and decided how to frame her explanation. Perhaps if she stuck to just the facts and avoided feelings she could make it through the story without too much bitterness. Would it be possible to explain the vallaslin without explaining why she’d denied being Dalish? In the long moment she’d been considering her answer, it seemed he expanded the terms of their agreement once more. “I will ask questions until I am satisfied with your answer,” he said with finality, looking so terribly smug that Hara had to fight the urge to slap the look off of his face. She almost preferred the schooled indifference.

“I could just get up and walk out of here, you know,” Hara snapped and brandished her now-empty mug at him in what she hoped was a threatening gesture, “I could tell the whole lot of you to fuck off and never speak to you again.” The threat sounded weak, even to her ears.

“Come on, Hare,” Varric said, his voice strangely tender, “Are we really so bad that you would abandon your friendships to avoid giving up one secret?”

Hara felt her chest constrict painfully at the word _friendships_ ; the dwarf may as well have slapped her, as surprised as she was at the authenticity of his expression and the earnestness in his voice. She hadn’t really meant the threat—she’d been trying to buy some time and was vexed with Solas, not with him—but she was truly done for now. “No,” she offered slowly, “You are not.”

“Very well, then,” Solas said, the smug look gone and replaced with purely academic interest. _Odd,_ she thought, _to see him change so fast._ “When were you marked and by whom?”

“I was sixteen,” Hara replied, frustrated with the defeated quality of her voice. “And by Clan Lavellan’s keeper.”

“Not _your_ keeper?” Solas continued, his gaze growing more intense.

“Clan Lavellan’s keeper,” she repeated irritably, lifting her chin in defiance. “I was… imported,” she finished lamely.

“Explain.” Solas’ command sent a shiver down her spine that did not stop until it reached her core. She tried to ignore the feeling, but there was something so… intoxicating about how he’d ordered her to continue. She shook her head, literally willing away the sensation. He misinterpreted the movement of her head as defiance. “Now,” he instructed. _Gods_. Hara pressed her thighs together. It helped nothing.

“I wasn’t raised Dalish. I came to the clan when I was thirteen,” she finally responded. He quirked an eyebrow in response and she steeled herself for what was coming next.

“Why Mythal?” He asked, and the change in direction surprised her. She’d been expecting him to ask her to expand on her previous, intentionally vague answer.

“The design was my choice, but I didn’t much care what the vallaslin represented,” Hara continued slowly, thinking of how best to answer this. She hadn’t anticipated this question at all. “Mythal’s branches reminded me of something I once loved,” she finished. It was an honest answer but still sufficiently vague. She thought back to the branches of the vhenadahl in the Wycome alienage, to the memories she had of her grandfather teaching her to play his lute underneath its shade.

“Something?” Varric interjected in confusion, “Not someone? I’ve only known a few Dalish myself, but a friend of mine chose her markings to honor her parents along with the gods.”

“Two things can be true at the same time,” Hara responded vaguely, “And I don’t remember you being part of this agreement,” she finished without much steam. She wanted to be cross with Varric for interjecting but her anger seemed to have dissipated after his earlier comment.

“And the vallaslin?” Solas asked next, and though he maintained a passively interested expression, he could not hide the flash of fury in his eyes. “It was not your choice?”

“No,” she said quietly. Hara dug her fingernails harshly into her palms underneath the table to will away the memory of the ultimatum the elders of Clan Lavellan had given her almost a decade earlier. “It was not.”

 _You’ve earned it with your usefulness, da’len, and now you truly belong to Clan Lavellan_ , Keeper Deshanna had coaxed, trying to make the vallaslin sound like a reward. _Ir abelas, Keeper, but I would rather see my grandfather reflected in my face than a god I do not believe in._ Her refusal was polite but firm. She was glad for the rare praise but had no desire to tattoo her face. She had been with the clan for three years at that point, and while Deshanna had immersed her in stories of the Creators, Hara didn’t believe in them the same way. From a historical perspective, sure; they were fascinating stories and she was truthfully enamored with Elvhen ruins, but to call them gods and goddesses seemed a far stretch. Perhaps it was because she’d never been taught to really believe in anything: not the dogma of the Chantry and not the Elvhen pantheon.

 _You misunderstand me,_ Deshanna had responded with steel in her voice, _You will comply or you will leave_. _You threaten the ways of the clan with your defiance, and I will not have you bring the Creators’ wrath down upon us._ Hara argued. _Where else do you have to go, da’len?_ She conceded. The Keeper marked her that night and the elders breathed easier.

Though she’d been too young (or too willfully ignorant) until she’d been sent to the Conclave to realize it, she’d been disposable ever since. The tattoos on her face did not change her attitude, did not suddenly make her more pious or less bothersome, did not create any meaningful connection between her and the clan. They simply made her less noticeable. She was easier to ignore when her bare face could not distinguish her from the others.

“One last question,” Solas said softly, his voice low as his expression shifted to something gentler. Hara wondered if he could read the unbidden memories bubbling up behind her eyes, if he could measure the depth of her anger from across the table. She waited. “Why did you allow it?”

“I couldn’t lose everything,” Hara responded bitterly, her gaze boring into his. “Not again.” She felt moisture in her palms and was vaguely aware that she’d broken through the skin on her hands.

The small pinpricks of blood she’d drawn anchored her to the present. She inhaled sharply and turned to give Blackwall what she hoped was a carefree smile but was, in actuality, rather more akin to a grimace. The Warden had remained notably silent throughout their questioning and had fixed her with a strange look: it was something like understanding. Hara wondered if he’d had to make a similar choice before, if whatever had happened to him before he became a Warden was connected to his solitude. “Now, Ser Warden, if you please,” Hara began and pushed her mug across the table to him, “Four more of these. And get something for yourselves, too, because I have no intentions of sharing.”

In her distraction, she missed the pained look on Solas’ face.

* * *

Solas knew he should stop her from drinking so much, had gently tried to suggest she slow down or stop for the evening, but the withering look she’d given him silenced his protests resolutely. He’d wanted her secret, yes, and was truthfully gratified he’d managed to find a way to pry some part of it out of her, but he hadn’t expected this outcome in the slightest.

He was torn between a need to lay bare the secrets she was hiding and trepidation at knowing too much—at _caring_ too much. He was furious at what her clan had done to her—not that she claimed them as her own. It seemed no better than the slavery of Arlathan, though he couldn’t quite understand the circumstances under which she’d received her marks, vague as she had been with her answers. He half-heartedly told himself he would’ve pressed her further if they hadn’t been in such a public place, surrounded by the dwarf, the Warden, and Inquisition’s soldiers as they were.

Truthfully, he was scared to deepen the wound he’d reopened in her heart. He was sure she hid a deep, almost feral hurt underneath her anger.

So he watched her drink herself into a stupor to lift her mood, and her spirits had risen with the alcohol in her blood. She slurred one song with Maryden while admiring the bard’s lute almost enviously; even in her intoxication, her voice had been beautiful. How she’d managed to put so much ale away was truly baffling, and Varric had all-but-commanded Solas to see her home, inebriated as she was. The dwarf had shooed him away with a thinly veiled threat to “better acquaint him with Bianca” if the Herald did not make it to her cabin safely and so now, here he was, helping her stumble her way down Haven’s icy paths.

Solas kept one hand in the small of her back, guiding and steadying her along the way, but before long she slipped and fell directly on her ass. Solas looked down at her in concern that quickly shifted to irritation as she began to laugh almost uncontrollably. She did not stop until her teeth began to chatter with the cold and he scooped her up into his arms roughly.

“I can walk!” Hara protested, even as she wrapped her arms around his neck and huddled against his chest. He could feel her body trembling with the cold and he pressed her closer against himself. He’d never say it aloud, but he was shocked at the lightness of her being, could almost feel the bones of her spine through her thin tunic. He’d carried her this way once before—not that she remembered—when he’d found her unconscious and bleeding from the head, clothing stuffed to the brim with elfroot, embrium, and blood lotus flowers. She’d worn a layer of armor then and hadn’t felt nearly so frail. It would’ve been incredibly disconcerting if he hadn’t felt her shapely ass and thighs pressed against the lower half of his torso; perhaps her weight was just… distributed differently. Solas clenched his jaw and forced his thoughts elsewhere.

“You cannot walk. You can barely stumble,” he practically growled in chastisement, “Regardless, you are almost home.” Before long they reached her cabin and Solas shifted her awkwardly over his shoulder to free his hand to open the door. He deposited her gently on the bed and she reached about blindly on her bedside table for her water carafe. She sent a small bottle flying in her search and Solas winced as it broke, a pleasant floral scent filling the air.

Hara sat up on the bed and gazed dejectedly at the broken vial leaking its contents onto the rug in the center of her room. “I loved that rug,” Hara said, truly forlorn as she looked at its now stained surface, the smell of lavender almost overpowering as it soaked through the faded carpet. “It really tied the room together.”

Solas sighed and made to pick up the pieces of the broken vial, concerned that she’d stumble out of bed in the middle of the night and step on them. He moved to deposit the pieces in the wastebasket and turned to command her to stay put for the evening but found her already asleep, head comically stuffed underneath her pillow rather than on top of it. He sighed and considered whether he should move into a position more conducive to a restful slumber, but thought better of it. He did, however, carefully unwrap her feet. Solas placed the cloth he’d lent her on the bedside table with a full glass of water. Mythal had gifted him the wraps eons ago and he’d treasured them while she was still alive. He hadn’t worn them since her murder but found the sight of them no longer wounded him when they were wrapped around her legs.

Solas gave Hara one last appraising look, worrying at his lower lip. It couldn’t hurt to shift her just a bit…

He told himself it was simply to make sure she could breathe in the event she became nauseated while she slept and carefully coaxed her onto her side. He brushed her long, straight hair out of her face and gazed sadly at the golden branches of her vallaslin, trying to imagine her face without the cruel marks. Truthfully, even now, she was beautiful. Her brows were thick but elegantly arched, a faint line developing between them from the frequency with which she furrowed her brow in confusion, concern, frustration, or ire. Her eyes, though closed, were framed with thick, dark lashes, so unlike the pale strawberry blonde of her hair, intertwined as it was with strands of red. He frowned as he noted the scar she’d received over her left eye when she put herself between Varric and a Templar. It pained him to think he was its cause, late as he’d been with his barrier. Solas shifted his gaze lower. Her lips… Full, almost wine-colored in stark contrast her freckle-covered skin, one particularly distracting in the bow of her lips. He had the sudden urge to run his thumb along her lower lip and knew he needed to forcefully remove himself from her cabin.

As he opened the door to leave, he softly bid her goodnight. “ _On era’vun, da’len_ ,” he said quietly as he made to close it, placing himself resolutely on the other side, where he was unlikely to do something regrettable.

“ _Ame tel’da’len. Harellan_ ,” Hara murmured into her pillow. Solas froze. _What had she called him? Surely he had misheard._ “What?” He asked, feeling his heart leap into his throat as he reopened the door and crossed the room to her bedside swiftly. He knelt beside her and narrowly stopped himself from shaking her by the shoulders to bring her to full consciousness. _She couldn’t possibly know_. He could smell the ale on her breath and the sweet headiness of her lavender oil, somehow made more potent by something he supposed was uniquely her. It was intoxicating.

“ _Ahn_ , Hara?” He repeated again, slipping into Elvhen in his distraction.

“ _Ame tel’da’len_ ,” she repeated, eyes still closed, inhaling deeply in her exhaustion. “ _Ma’ melin Harellan_ ,” she exhaled. He felt his suspicion dissipate and pity snake icily around his heart in its place. He had been called a traitor innumerable times in his long life, had been rebranded one exclusively by the Dalish, but at one time, he’d chosen to wear the insult as a badge of pride. After all, he was Pride first, a name he had reclaimed upon waking from uthenera. And although she’d shortened it to a diminutive…

 _Traitor_ was the only name she had, it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ven - yes  
> Ahn - what  
> On era’vun - good night  
> Ame tel’da’len - I am not a child.  
> Harellan - traitor, trickster, rebel.  
> Ma’ melin Harellan - My name is Harellan.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I chewed for a long time on what to do next and as always, I'm curious to know what you think. I think we're making a brief detour to the Storm Coast next.
> 
> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ --- camp, off to steal yo gurl 
> 
> xx
> 
> Elvhen translations at end.

“Heeeeerald,” a feminine voice called to her, the tone sing-song and teasing while simultaneously sly. Hara was vaguely aware that she was waking up, her head pounding fiercely; her mouth was astoundingly dry and her eyes were practically glued shut with sleep. She felt her mattress underneath her, and… someone slowly crawling on top her. She snapped her eyes open with a gasp, grasping the dagger at her thigh and pressing the flat of the blade swiftly against the intruder’s neck.

“Oi, calm down Stabby!” Hara’s eyes slowly came into focus and she registered an elven woman on top of her: unevenly cut hair, truly horrendous breeches, and wide, blue-hazel eyes. Her memory clicked into place. Sera. The archer was grabbing nervously at Hara’s wrist, willing her to remove the blade from her neck. “Someone one dared me to do it!” Sera complained. “You didn’t have your bits out or nothing!”

Hara groaned and removed her blade from Sera’s neck, moving to rub vigorously at her face with her other hand. She felt… miserable, honestly, like a pile of druffalo shit. This was perhaps the worst hangover she’d had in her entire life. She found she could remember the vast majority of the evening but had absolutely no memory of how she’d gotten home. What the fuck was Sera doing here? She quickly took inventory of herself and found she was still fully dressed, sans foot wraps, so she supposed she’d taken them off when she crawled into bed. Her cheeks colored as she wracked her brain for a memory and remembered singing with Maryden. _Maker, let me die._

“You smell like booze,” Sera teased, crinkling her nose at her as she leaned in closely to take an overdramatic and rather offensive whiff of Hara’s personage. “And flowers. Booze flowers.”

“Astute,” Hara replied, wincing out the loudness of her own voice. “I was in the tavern most of the night.”

“Should’ve waited for me,” Sera pouted, and Hara suddenly realized the archer was still hovering over her. “Had to drink your stupid water instead.” _What? Water?_

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Hara replied in defense as she untangled her limbs from the elven woman on top of her, pushing her away. She’d liked the archer when she met her, but this closeness was almost suffocating. “When did you get here?”

“Just now,” Sera replied, grinning. “Got any food in here?”

“What?” Hara asked, confused at the strange direction their conversation had just taken. “No, I don’t have any food in here. Who dared you to wake me up?”

“Me,” Sera said, cackling gleefully, “I dared me!” She should have known.

“How did you know which cabin was mine?” Hara asked, furrowing her brow in confusion. Sera was making even less sense than she had the first time they’d met… or perhaps her hangover was impacting her verbal comprehension. She took a deep breath and willed the room to stop spinning.

“Didn’t,” Sera responded, grinning wickedly, “Broke into some beardy fellow’s cabin first. _He_ did have his bits out.” She crinkled her nose at the apparently unpleasant memory.

Blackwell, Hara assumed. It seemed he’d found a place to rest his head that night. She felt a wave of shame wash over her as she realized she hadn’t helped him to requisition a tent or arrange for any formal sleeping quarters. Meeting Sera must’ve been… a rather alarming introduction, considering his reported state of undress.

“Foooood,” Sera whined loudly, pointing at her stomach as if she expected Hara to materialize breakfast.

“I told you, I don’t have any,” Hara said impatiently. Her headache was rapidly worsening and she knew she would need to do something about the archer before her skull exploded. “Go. Tavern. Food.” Hara couldn’t manage to string together a more coherent sentence. She pushed Sera off of the bed and out the door of her cabin, vaguely waving her arm in the tavern’s direction after giving Sera strict instructions not to steal anyone’s breeches.

Sera had argued loudly, saying she wouldn’t have come at all if she’d realized Hara would turn into a “stuffy old danglebag” before she could get there, but she finally left at Hara’s rather mouthwatering description of Flissa’s cooking. Hara had lied, actually; she doubted breakfast would be ready at this hour, noting the sun just beginning to rise and color the peaks of the Frostbacks a pleasant pink. It was still blessedly early and the village was still relatively quiet, so she thought she might be able to sneak over to Master Adan’s to request something to help her aching head. He kept odd hours, so perhaps he’d already be up (or still awake) experimenting with something explosive. She wasn’t particularly keen on moving, nauseous as she was, but she knew a potion would help. She wasn’t prepared to address the advisors with this throbbing behind her eyes; there would probably be shouting involved once she argued to approach the mages in Redcliffe.

Hara sighed and gazed dejectedly at the foot wraps on her bedside table. The effort of putting them on felt almost monumental, so she pulled on the holey pair of boots she’d worn when she first arrived in Haven. She didn’t bother with stockings and her big toe peeked out of the left one. _Good enough_ , she told herself. She would be back before long; her visits with Adan were usually brief. He seemed to dislike talking almost as much as she did. As she walked the path to the apothecary, she noted a strange impression in a snowdrift near her cabin. Her cheeks turned red with embarrassment and she hoped she hadn’t fallen down on her way home. She increased her speed and before long, she’d arrived.

Adan was closed.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” she cursed softly, standing in the snow and arguing with herself about whether or not it would be appropriate to wake the potion master for something as self-serving as a hangover cure. Hara stared at his door for a long moment and had almost convinced herself to knock when someone addressed her from behind.

“Hara,” the voice called quietly. She groaned and put her head in her hands. Solas. He was absolutely the last person she wanted to see right now. “You should not be up at this hour. Did you not sleep?” His tone was almost tender, even as he chastised her and accused her of restlessness.

She said nothing.

“You are cross with me,” he added in her silence, his tone tinged with regret.

“I am,” Hara replied, her tone clipped. She still had her head in her hands and was circling her fingers around her temples, willing the ache in her head to subside.

He did not need to ask why. “ _Ir abelas, lethallan_ ,” Solas murmured quietly. “I did not do it to cause you pain.”

“Why, then?” Hara snapped, turning quickly around to face him. Her brow furrowed as she glared up at him, ignoring his admissions of friendship. It was too early to have this conversation, especially when she felt so spectacularly hungover. Her brain wasn’t working properly and she was afraid she’d inadvertently say something she did not mean. She clenched her jaw, biting back another question. _Why do you care?_

“It is not a weakness to feel deeply about the past,” he said softly in response. It was too tender, too akin to pity, and a wave of fury crashed over her so suddenly she found she could hardly breathe. It wasn’t even remotely an answer; he did this frequently, responding to a question she hadn’t asked in lieu of being forthcoming about the one she had. She knew she needed to get away from him before she did something stupid.

She did it anyway.

Hara fisted her hand around the leather corded about his neck, the jawbone he’d attached to it cutting into her wrist as she drew him down to her level. Though he was several inches taller than her, the force with which she’d yanked him down brought them so close together the tip of her nose brushed against his. She could feel his breath, warm against her face, as she glowered into his eyes, chin raised in insolence. He regarded her with alarm rather than pity and she could breathe a little easier, though her breath was still ragged and deep and she felt dizzy and hot. She had the odd sensation that she was floating, though she was resolutely anchored to him.

“And you, _hahren_?” She spat the question out quickly, her tone vitriolic. She breathed deeply and pulled him closer, her forehead now pressing against his. “What of your past? You cloak everything in the Fade. What is it that _you_ are hiding?”

Solas said nothing, but she could see him at war with himself, at how he creased his brow and seemed ready to spin a story, to deny her accusation. He captured his lower lip between his teeth and she was suddenly transfixed by his mouth. It was a momentary distraction. She was still angry. She was not done.

“How badly do they hurt, Solas, these things you are hiding?” Hara asked bitterly, her tone sharp. She knew she should stop speaking, but she had an inexplicable desire to wound him.“Were they done to you, or did you do them to yourself?”

She could not breathe again, the pained, vulnerable look on his face stealing the breath from her lungs. It did not feel good to land the blow, did not help to stave off the ache in her heart one iota, and a wave of guilt rolled over her. It was not the first time she’d seen him look this way. The first had been when she’d talked of guilt in an effort to convince a wayward son to return to his family in the Crossroads, of the blame he’d affix to himself if his mother died of a cause he could have prevented. The second, it seemed, was now.

She released his necklace and the wolf jawbone thudded softly against his chest. She spun on her heel and began to walk away from him.

* * *

He knew he was on thin ice, of course, as he registered the fact he had been careless. Solas had relied on discussing memories he’d seen in dreaming in an effort to distract her—and not just her, everyone else—from asking more pertinent questions about himself, his magic, his past. He had not realized he’d done it to the point that it had drawn her suspicion. Solas commanded himself to be quiet, to let her walk away in silence, to pull his disguise tightly around himself and retreat as he considered his next course of action.

He did not.

“Are you done now,” Solas spat at her retreating form, “ _Harellan_?”

She froze; Solas thought he’d never seen someone living look so still. He noted her long, unbound hair blowing in the soft wind, could see the muscles of her calves flex as she willed her legs to either stop or go. He was not sure what effect it had had on her. He waited, steeling himself against her response. He would not let her catch him unprepared again. 

“Again,” she whispered. It was so soft he could barely hear her.

“What?” He asked in confusion. He had been unprepared. Again.

“My name,” Hara said, her tone still low and soft, barely a whisper. “Say it again.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. As with her response last night, he had not expected this. When she’d whispered her name to him in the dark, he had assumed she had been branded with it by the Dalish, anointed a traitor like she’d been anointed with Mythal’s vallaslin against her will. He meant to use it to wound her in return, and yet it seemed it to have stirred some other emotion deep inside her instead.

“It has been years since I’ve heard it,” Hara continued, slowly turning to face him. Though she was several feet away from him, he could see the gears turning in her brain, could see her piecing together a hazy memory from the night before. “Or said it,” she finished quietly, realization snapping into place.

“ _Harellan_ ,” he said, and she was rapturous. Her eyes fluttered shut and it was the most free he’d ever seen her. _Ar lasa mala revas_ , he thought, the phrase bubbling up suddenly in his mind. Solas clenched his fists to keep himself from closing the distance between them and cupping her face in his hands.

“The Dalish took it from me,” she continued, her eyes still closed. The expression had faded from one of euphoric delight to bitter fury and he wondered how she managed to shift it so quickly. She was making his head spin. “It’s the last thing I have left.”

“Left? Of what?” He asked quietly. He kept his tone hushed, like he was trying to coax a wild animal into submission. He was concerned that if he pressed too intensely, she’d hastily rebuild the wall he seemed to be slowly tearing down.

“My grandfather,” Hara replied after a long moment. He saw her jaw working, knew she had been carefully weighing the admission before she gave it. “He gave me my name.”

“Why would they take it from you?” Solas asked, but he knew the answer already. His stomach twisted, a mixture of sickness and fury. _Too akin to Fen’Harel._

“They were afraid to draw the Dread Wolf’s gaze. They severed my name to assuage their fear,” Hara said, her voice low and pained. 

“You know what it means, yes?” He could not stop himself, was barely aware of his lips moving to shape the words, the question spilling from his mouth before he had time to truly consider its implications.

“I know what they think it means,” Hara said bitterly. “For me and for him.”

He held his breath. _Who did she mean? Her grandfather? Fen’Harel? Both?_

“We were not named for traitors, Solas,” she finally replied, turning on her heel to make her way back down the path she’d taken to get there. “We were named for rebels.”

He lost a part of himself to her, just then. He found he did not want it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harellan - traitor, trickster, rebel.  
> Ir abelas, lethallan - I am sorry, my friend  
> Hahren - elder  
> Fenedhis - a Dalish curse, lit. "wolf dick"  
> Ar lasa mala revas - you are free


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's fine, it's fine, it's fine (!!!)
> 
> xx camp
> 
> PS see notes at end for a feedback request

She had to do something to calm her racing mind.

Hara hadn’t meant to share so much with him, but Solas had shocked her immensely when he said her name, her _given_ name, and secrets just seemed to hemorrhage out of her. She couldn’t bear to wait around for him to respond, so rather than do just that, she left him standing there in the snow. Hara could feel his eyes on her the entire time she walked the path to the Chantry, boring holes into her back until the tavern hid her from his gaze. The sun had risen higher now and she knew she’d better report to the Chantry. She prepared herself to be reprimanded for her absence the day before.

Hara observed a handsome if nervous-looking young man hovering around the door to the Chantry; he was wearing armor of an unusual style and looked distinctly different from their other recruits, so she pegged him for an outsider. Her curiosity (and suspicion) was immediately piqued. He looked exasperated as one person after another passed him by or bade him to talk with someone else.

“Excuse me,” the young man rushed out as Hara walked towards him, “I’ve got a message, but I’ve been having trouble getting anyone to talk to me.” He was glaring intensely at Threnn the Quartermaster, who was clearly pretending to complete requisitions paperwork in her efforts to avoid him; the report she was reading was upside down, her forehead wrinkled in feigned concentration as she “reviewed” the request. 

“I can see that,” Hara said flatly as she observed Threnn, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. “You can give me the message, if you’d like. Who are you, soldier?”

“My name is lieutenant Cremisius Acclasi,” he said, looking considerably relieved, “I work for a mercenary company called The Bull’s Chargers. Our captain, The Iron Bull, has information he’d like to offer to the Inquisition free of charge."

“Things in life are rarely free,” Hara replied as she quirked an eyebrow. “What does this Iron Bull expect in return?”

“The Iron Bull wants to work for the Inquisition. He’s impressed with the work you’re doing,” Cremisius replied. 

“What could the Bull’s Chargers do for the Inquisition?” Hara asked with feigned indifference. She knew they needed to significantly expand their military powers and a trained mercenary company would supplement their greenhorn forces nicely.

“We’re loyal, we’re tough, and we don’t break contracts,” Cremisius replied, lifting his chin in pride. “You can ask around Val Royeaux. We’ve got references.”

“Alright,” Hara said slowly, not quite convinced but not about to turn down free information. She’d turn whatever he shared over to Leliana to see what the spymaster made of it. If this company had a creditworthy reputation in Val Royeaux, she would know about it. If it was solid intelligence, well, more the better; if it was not, it would be no great loss.

“We got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast,” the lieutenant began. Hara clenched her jaw. _Tevinter mercenaries? Why in Andraste’s sacred knickers would they be on the Storm Coast?_   “If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us work. We’ll eliminate the threat on the Inquisition’s behalf regardless of whether you choose to hire us on.”

She shook the man’s hand and agreed to pass the information on to the appropriate people. He thanked her for her time and left swiftly, presumably preparing to return to his company on the Storm Coast. Hara wondered if she’d see him again; he’d been quite handsome... She pushed the thought aside as quickly as it came and entered the Chantry, keen to find Leliana and share the information.

After Hara had shared the information with the spymaster—who had, indeed, heard of the Bull’s Chargers and could verify that they were both honorable and highly skilled—she waited around the war table for the rest of the advisors to arrive.

 * * *

Hara was right. There was a good bit of shouting. Her patience was thin.

Cullen argued for the Templars, Hara for the mages, and she told the Commander to “kindly fuck himself” twice before the conversation ended, much to Josephine’s shock and Cassandra’s consternation. Leliana, surprisingly, seemed amused. _So much for keeping your head down and your mouth shut around that Templar, stupid_ , she admonished herself. It would have been bad enough to endure this meeting hungover, but she also found her mind wandering frequently to the encounter she’d had with Solas, how she’d yanked him down to her level and felt his warm breath on her face, watched as he captured his lower lip between his teeth in concern. If she hadn’t been so fucking angry, she would’ve been… Well, she wasn’t thinking clearly. Obviously.

Josephine recommended they table the discussion until “clearer heads prevailed.” Cassandra insisted the conversation could not be tabled, that a decision needed to be made immediately in order to begin making preparations to approach one group or the other. Hara was ready to tear her hair out until mercifully, one of Leliana’s messengers burst into the war room with a report from Scout Harding. The messenger noted Harding had lost contact with a retinue of their soldiers on the Storm Coast. Hara thought back to the handsome lieutenant’s offer and the prospect of recruiting a skilled mercenary company to their efforts.

She rehashed the lieutenant’s proposal with Leliana while the other advisors listened. “Two nugs, one arrow,” Hara said with a grin and a waggle of her eyebrows to convey her enthusiasm. She was _very_ keen to extricate herself from the advisors’ decision making processes and figured throwing herself headfirst into a potential-rescue-and-recruitment twofer was the best way to do that. The spymaster looked a bit miffed at her analogy but surprisingly, she’d agreed, warning Hara to thoroughly vet the agreement before she made any promises.

So, in the end, she set off towards the Storm Coast to investigate their missing company and meet with this Qunari mercenary captain, The Iron Bull, and his so-called Bull’s Chargers. Before she left, she dared Cullen to find a reason—a solid, logical reason entirely unrelated to his history with the Templar Order—she should ride to Therinfal Redoubt to meet the Templars in her absence. The commander accepted her challenge, chin raised in defiance but oddly punctuated with a pain behind his eyes.

She asked Blackwall, Sera, and Solas to join her on her expedition. Hara was loathe to undertake a journey with Solas considering the events of the last 24 hours, but he was a fierce fighter with considerable skill in healing. She had thought seriously about taking Madame Vivienne with them instead but ultimately decided against it; she had not spent any considerable length of time with the Orlesian and did not trust her to watch her back in a fight. Hara supposed she should apply this same suspicion to Sera, but there was just something about the elven archer that was thoroughly endearing. Maybe it was her brashness or the entirely unabashed way she said and did whatever she wanted. Hara admired that last quality; Sera’s swagger was probably misplaced, but she wished she had a little more of it herself.

The ten day journey to the Storm Coast was… eventful. Solas and Sera mixed about as well as oil and water, though she and Blackwall seemed to get on famously despite their decidedly pantsless beginnings. Hara and Blackwall shared many an amused look as Sera and Solas squabbled about magic, Elvhen culture, magic, Elvhen history, her relentless prank pulling, and magic. Truthfully, Hara wasn’t much bothered by the bickering between the archer and the mage; it meant Solas was otherwise engaged and she was blessedly free from his questioning.

Her mood waned considerably the closer they got to the Waking Sea. It wasn’t the temperature or the scenery; truthfully, she found it beautiful and she breathed easier in the salty sea air. It was the rain. It was fucking relentless, and her hair was sticking to her face, her forehead, her arms, her back, and so on. She looked (and felt) like a half-drowned cat. The moons had risen high into the night’s sky by the time they finally made contact with Scout Harding, who shared what she knew about a group of bandits operating in the area. Harding had sent a small retinue of soldiers to parley with the bandits’ leader and, when they hadn’t returned, sent word to the Nightingale requesting additional assistance. Harding and her party had been attempting to find information about the Grey Wardens on the Coast but hadn’t had much success considering their missing soldiers. Hara and her party decided to make camp for the night, make contact with the Bull’s Chargers in the morning, and then set out on a search-and-rescue mission, potentially with the added assistance of a mercenary company.

It was too wet to make a campfire so Hara was sitting miserably in the rain, attempting to do something with her awful hair as she took first watch. Sera’s whining had grown incessant, Blackwall had become quiet and withdrawn, and Solas… was completely infuriating. He’d cast a barrier over himself that seemed to repel the rain and when Sera had demanded he do the same for the rest of them, he feigned ignorance; he claimed he could not extend what was essentially a magical parasol beyond the few feet around him. Hara was sure he was lying simply to piss Sera off but she could hardly prove it.

Hara had all-but-banished the three of them to their tents in her ire while she took the first watch, but the silence hadn’t improved her mood any. She was about thirty seconds away from shearing her entire head of hair with her hunting knife, the wayward strands sticking to her more incessantly with every attempt to wrangle it into a less bothersome arrangement. Hara was all but growling as she yanked her hair this way and that. She was less than thrilled when she heard someone clear their throat behind her.

“Having trouble?” Solas asked, his voice low and strangely mischievous. She said nothing. “I rarely have such trouble with _my_ hair. Perhaps I might lend you my superior skills.” He was teasing her. Her mood darkened and she could not hold her tongue.

“You are _hilarious_ ,” Hara snapped sarcastically, turning around to look at him with her hands still knotted in her sopping wet hair. It was the first sentence she’d spoken directly to him since the scene in front of the apothecary. Solas looked exceedingly satisfied with himself and Hara realized he’d likely baited her intentionally in an effort to break the wall of silence she’d resolutely erected between them. 

“Thank you,” Solas responded, the self-satisfied look diminishing somewhat and shifting into something softer. “I know you have been avoiding me since our… conversation. Please believe me when I say I am not out here,” he gestured vaguely around their rain-soaked camp, “To antagonize you. I thought to apologize—“

“Don’t,” Hara interrupted. A long moment passed. “You already did. I… am sorry for being unkind as well. I am not the best with—” She searched for words, overcome with the sheer amount of things that could fit into that sentence. “Apologies. Or pity. Or kindness. Or _hair_ ,” she finished lamely, her cheeks reddening.

“…Thank you,” Solas replied after a time. “The offer still stands.” 

“What?” Hara asked, unsure where this was going. He hadn’t offered her anything, had he? She wracked her brain, trying to call up the specific things they’d said (and shouted) to one another back in Haven. Whatever look she had on her face must’ve been amusing, judging by the strangely fond smile with which Solas was regarding her.

“Your hair,” he supplied. “Allow me?”

Hara felt her heart thud heavily against her ribcage. She ignored it and stared at him, unsure how to respond to such an offer. He’d made it once before, back in the Hinterlands as they’d cleaned game he’d caught for supper. Hara thought he’d been goading her then, but it seemed he had been serious. She figured refusal was the safest course. 

“It’s fine,” Hara deflected. Solas narrowed his eyes at her.

“Harellan.” It almost sounded like a challenge, the way Solas said her name. She felt her chest constrict. It did something to her, watching him wrap his lips around each syllable.  _Ha-rel-lan_. She held her breath. “Allow me.” It was a command this time, though his tone was still soft. She knew she would be incapable of refusing him again.

Hara nodded her head in concession and he moved behind her, the plane of his chest brushing against her back. She let out a small gasp of surprise as she realized she could no longer feel the rain falling on her face with him seated so closely behind her. It seemed he was still maintaining the rain-repelling barrier he’d cast and she was now enclosed in it as well. He waved a hand over her and she felt blessedly dry from her head to her toes.

“What did you do?” She wondered aloud, somewhat embarrassed at the awe infused in the question. Solas let out a pleased chuckle.

“Magic,” he murmured in her ear, tangling his hands in her hair. She bit back a moan at the feeling of his fingertips against her scalp and at the pleasant sensation that arose as he tugged the long, strawberry blonde strands into a thick braid that wound into a crown around her head.

Tomorrow, she’d strike an alliance with a Ben-Hassrath mercenary captain and challenge an armed religious militia (and win).

It would all pale in comparison to hearing her name on his lips and feeling his hands in her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i have a time-jump in mind after this chapter, though it won't be one that skips significant canon plot points. i feel like i've done a lot of backstory/relationship-building and want to move ahead in our story, but i thought i'd ask you all how you felt. if you have an opinion, please leave it in the comments!!
> 
> xx camp


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things are (fixin' to be) happening!!!!!
> 
> xx camp

Things had gone, as Sera might say, “tits up.” In fact, Sera did say it, six times and with a variety of lewd metaphors as soon as the doors of the Gull and Lantern closed.

Hara had taken her, Cassandra, and Solas to Redcliffe to speak with Grand Enchanter Fiona about forming an alliance between the Inquisition and the rebel mages after their return from the Storm Coast. Hara had wanted the Iron Bull to accompany them after witnessing his brutal fighting style and skill with two-handed weaponry, but Cassandra’s presence was Hara’s concession to Cullen; the commander had insisted she come due to her skill in magical suppression and a handy ability to _literally set the lyrium in someone’s blood aflame_. Hara was equal parts horrified and impressed. Needless to say, she conceded.

Solas requested to come as their resident magical expert, much to Vivienne’s disgust and protestation, though Hara had the suspicion he also meant to keep an eye on her after some particularly reckless maneuvering on her behalf during several battles on the coast. Though she’d only seen the Iron Bull fight a handful of times, Hara was learning some spectacular uses for her two-headed axe, and almost none of them could be described as “safe.”

Hara had invited Sera for ranged support—well, that, and to keep her grounded during the expedition. The archer had protested loudly about accompanying her anywhere that people “pissed frigging magic,” but when Hara said she understood her hesitation and made to ask Varric instead, Sera complained of favoritism and refused to be left behind.

Now that they were here, the situation was, as Sera had colorfully described, “worse than setting your bits on fire, this, and I would frigging know.” It was a truly apt expression for the mess they’d found in Redcliffe. Hara was exceedingly grateful the Commander was not there to see it.

Fiona had denied ever inviting the Inquisition to discuss an alliance and, in a spectacularly intelligent turn of events, had bound herself along with the entire company of rebel mages into the service of a Tevinter magister named Alexius who was, according to Sera, “just another sparkly tit who punches down.” Despite the grand enchanter’s strange claim that they’d never met in Val Royeaux, Hara knew she had only herself to blame that a fucking Tevinter magister had gotten there first. She cursed herself for dallying all over Ferelden and Orlais until the Seeker gently reminded her of the lives they’d saved, the influence they’d built, and the alliances they’d formed. It did almost nothing to brighten her mood.

Presently, Hara was sitting on a low wall near the tavern and staring intensely at a cryptic message written on a scrap of parchment the magister’s son, Felix, had pressed into her palm when he’d all but collapsed on her. Alexius had dismissed them after that, indicating he would “send word to the Inquisition to conclude this business at a later date.” Solas, Cassandra, and Sera were hovering around her, reading the missive over her shoulder with mixed reactions.

“Come to the Chantry,” Cassandra read aloud slowly, “You are in danger. Well, that’s… Concerning.”

“All of this shit is concerning, Seeker,” Hara responded, frustration evident in her tone. She was chewing on her lower lip intensely and had pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers in an effort to stave off a growing headache.

“Got to be a trap,” Sera said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “A big, stupid, magical trap. Not going! Can’t make me.”

“I agree that we must be wary,” Solas began, “But we can hardly afford to leave Redcliffe without investigating all potential avenues. The magister’s son may have information we can use to loosen the Tevinter’s grip on the mages. Perhaps they can yet be persuaded to join the Inquisition’s cause.”

“Fine!” Sera all-but-shouted, rushing up the path towards the Chantry before Hara had the time to stop her. “Come on, let’s do something!” She barked in her nervousness, “Quick, and then we’ll get out of here before someone pisses magic on our heads.”

They had no choice but to follow her as she burst through the Chantry’s doors. None of them had expected the scene that awaited them. The Chantry was in ruins, and an enormous Fade rift had opened up in the center of the building, with what could only be described as pockets of magical goo swirling along the ground.

And in the middle of it all? The most flamboyantly dressed man Hara had ever seen in her life.

“You’re _finally_ here,” said the spectacularly mustachioed human as he dispatched a pair of terror demons before him, whirling around from the sickly green rift; it seemed it was imminently preparing to spew another wave of demons out into the middle of the Chantry. “Now, help me close this, would you?” He expertly dodged a terror demon as it burst forth from the Fade through the worn carpet in front of him.

Hara would’ve been impressed with his skill (and his showmanship, _and_ his outfit, _and_ his mustache) if she hadn’t been pulled so suddenly into such a strange battle.

Time seemed to shift around them in bizarre ways; at some points, it felt like a monumental task to swing her axe, like she was literally moving in slow-motion as she attempted to cut down the terror demon before her. She could see Sera out of the corner of her eye, knocking arrows to her bow with impossible speed, moving faster than she’d ever seen her move before. Hara knew she was eager to get out of Redcliffe, but it was hardly possible for her to move with twice her normal speed, wasn’t it? Solas’ casting was similarly accelerated, but Cassandra swung her sword in such a sluggish, lackadaisical manner it looked almost comical.

The fight seemed to draw on for ages while simultaneously ending in the blink of an eye. Once the demons had been dispatched, Hara threw out her hand, the magic in her palm connecting with the Fade rift and sending a familiar lurch of nausea tinged with power through her. It snapped closed resolutely and her gaze quickly shifted to the mage who’d greeted them.

“Who are you?” Hara asked quickly, at the exact same time the man asked, “How does that work?”

Hara grinned sheepishly and shrugged her shoulders. “Magic?” She offered vaguely. It had been Solas’ explanation whenever she’d wondered at the mechanics of something fantastic he’d done. Perhaps this man and his exquisite mustache would be satisfied with similarly vague explanations as well.

“You don’t _even_ know, do you?” The mage asked, his voice exasperated as he stared at her marked hand. “You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.”

“While exploring my personal shortcomings is one of my favorite pastimes, I’d like to know who the hell you are,” Hara responded, a challenge in her voice. Outfit be damned, the mage’s sass had shortened her temper considerably.

“Ah! Getting ahead of myself again, I see.” The man cried with a flourish of his hand. He waved it theatrically as he bowed low, his mustache twitching into a devilish smile. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently from Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Another Tevinter,” Cassandra began, tightening her grip on her sword. “I should’ve guessed by the complexion and the astounding sense of self-importance.”

“I was expecting Felix,” Hara said, ignoring the grandstanding from the mage and from Cassandra.

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” the man named Dorian replied, “He was to give you the note, then meet us here after ditching his father.”

Hara’s eyes narrowed. “How are you connected with Alexius?”

“Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable—as I’m sure you can imagine,” Dorian replied, an explanation that was not quite an explanation. It reminded her suddenly of Solas’ penchant for responding to questions she hadn’t asked in lieu of being forthcoming about the ones she had. She wondered if this was a habit of mages or men or both.

“ _Fantastic_ ,” Hara said sarcastically, “Another magister.”

“All right, let’s say this once,” Dorian sighed in exasperation, twirling his mustache, “I’m a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium. I know southerners use the terms interchangeably, but that only makes you sound like barbarians.”

“Better that than a poncy, sparkly pissbag," Sera shouted in retaliation. 

Hara pinched the bridge of her nose again. “Stop talking like you’re waiting for applause,” she said, and truthfully it was meant for both Sera and Dorian. Her headache had grown to monumental proportions and she could feel the blood throbbing in her temples. “Just tell me what’s going on.” She took a deep, steading breath through her nose, idly noting that Solas had shifted marginally closer to her.

“What?” Dorian gasped in exaggerated, mock horror, placing a hand to his breast in shock. “There’s no applause?! Fine.”

Hara narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw.

Dorianread the shift in her mood and must have realized her patience was wearing thin. “Look,” he started, “You must know there’s danger. That should be obvious even _without_ the note. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

“That is fascinating, if true,” Solas suddenly interjected, closing the distance between himself and Hara and placing his hand lightly on her shoulder. “And almost certainly dangerous.”

Hara could taste ozone in her mouth, could practically feel Solas’ barrier ready to spring into existence through her pauldrons. Hara couldn’t understand why his magic seemed to come alive on her skin even before he’d performed it; she’d meant to ask him about it after something similar had happened in Val Royeaux, but it had slipped her mind until that moment.

“The rift you closed here?” Dorian questioned, looking down earnestly into Hara’s eyes, “You saw how it twisted time around itself, yes? Sped some things up and slowed others down?”

So she hadn’t imagined it, and judging by the looks on her companions’ faces, they’d noticed the strange time distortions as well. Hara nodded her head solemnly, a signal for Dorian to continue his explanation.

“Soon there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the world.”

“Well, that’s fucking phenomenal,” Hara said flatly. Solas’ grip on her shoulder tightened marginally and she wondered what it meant. _A sign of comfort? Agreement? Warning?_

“I _know_ what I’m talking about. I helped develop this magic. When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work.”

“So we should be kicking _your_ arse, too, then!” Sera. She was not helping. Hara glared at her and she shut her mouth, but the archer still looked thoroughly miffed. She had one arm reached around herself with a hand stuck inside her quiver, prepared to knock an arrow to her bow at any moment.

Dorian ignored Sera’s threat without skipping a beat and continued his diatribe. “What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it. Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

Just then, the door to the Chantry opened quietly, and in snuck Felix. He looked much better than he had in the Chantry. “He didn’t do it for them,” Felix began as he came closer to them.

“Took you long enough!” Dorian complained, though he was regarding Felt with a fond smile. “Is he getting suspicious?”

“Shouldn’t have played the illness card,” Felix said with a chagrined look on his face. “I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.” He turned to Hara, his expression shifting into something like sadness mixed with disgust and regret. “My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves ‘Venatori.’ And I can tell you one thing: Whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

“This is all very suspicious,” Cassandra said, eyes narrowed and a dubious frown on her face. “Why would you work against your own father?”

“For the same reason Dorian works against him,” Felix offered, though it was not quite an explanation. Hara wondered if he were a mage, too; if he wasn't, perhaps she could associate the awful non-answers with men rather than magic. He regarded Cassandra’s narrowed eyes and apparently figured he needed to continue. “I love my father, and I love my country. But this? Time magic? What he’s doing is madness. For his own sake, you have to stop him.”

“It would also be nice if he didn’t rip a hole in time. There’s _already_ a hole in the sky,” Dorian finished, his mustache curving into a deep frown.

Hara let out a nervous laugh, too loud, too long, and entirely inappropriate considering the seriousness of the situation. “Sure, okay, great, yes,” she rushed, and she was pinching the bridge of her nose again, her feet moving of their own accord as she began to pace like a caged animal in front of them.

“Close rifts, mend the Breach, sew up holes in time and space,” Hara said quickly, words tumbling from her mouth before she could stop them, her breathing shallow and fast. She vaguely realized she was about to have a panic attack. “What’s next?” She asked breathlessly, panic seeping into her voice. “Retrieve Andraste’s knickers from the Fade? Ascend to the Maker’s side? Unleash the Elvhen pantheon after kicking Fen’harel’s ass?”

Solas’ hand was back again, this time wrapped tightly around her hand, stopping her pacing abruptly. Hara blinked stupidly at the contact before she realized his grip was too tight, such that it was almost painful. It brought her back to reality. He released her hand, his face schooled into a careful, impassive look.

“I hope it’s not as bad or as involved as all that, even if I don’t know what some of that means,” Felix replied sympathetically, “But the Venatori and my father are definitely connected, and if they’re behind those rifts or the Breach in the sky, they’re even worse than I thought.”

“I will help in whatever way I can,” Dorian replied, his flamboyant posturing replaced by a resolutely somber tone. “I can’t stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I want to keep it that way for now. But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there.”

Hara nodded slowly. She could hardly refuse his offer— _who else would have an inside look into fucking time magic_? “Alright,” she responded, looking and feeling quite deflated from her near panic attack.

“I’ll be in touch,” Dorian finished, turning to walk out of the Chantry. “Neither of you—“ he gave a pointed look to both Felix and Hara—“are allowed to get yourselves killed in my absence.”

As the door to the Chantry clicked resolutely shut, Hara let out a deep, heavy sigh. She turned to Cassandra, a deep frown on her face, the worry line between her eyebrows prominent as she wrinkled her brow. Cassandra was looking at her expectantly. Hara searched for words.

“The Commander’s going to have a field day with this,” Hara finally said, attempting to infuse some humor into the situation to stave off the icy wave of dread that had crashed over her.

“I imagine he will,” Cassandra replied, and though her tone was still grave, a smile was playing around the corner of her lips. “What was it you told him back in Haven?”

“I don’t remember,” Hara lied, suddenly feeling deeply uncomfortable. Sera and Solas were watching their interaction closely. 

“It was before you left for the Storm Coast,” Cassandra reminded, her smile broadening. _Was the Seeker really about to tease her?_ “It was not a very… Ah, _kind_ phrase, as I recall. Perhaps he will instruct you to do something similar.”

“What’d you say to the ol’ jackboot?” Sera said, elbowing Hara with a wide, mischievous grin on her face, prodding her ribs in physical encouragement to spit it out.

“I told him to _kindly fuck himself_ ,” Hara said, an intense blush spreading across her cheeks. “Twice. And now it seems the fates have unkindly fucked _me_ in return.” She elected to cover her embarrassment with sarcasm and let out a wistful sigh, working her expression into something she hoped read as 'jilted lover.' "They didn't even buy me dinner first." 

Solas let out a spluttering cough and shooed them all quickly out of the Chantry, claiming it was not safe to “linger amongst the dust and the strange magic there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *casually waves a sign that reads "Canon Divergence Ahead"* ☆ﾐ(o*･ω･)ﾉ


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *honk honk* canon divergence coming through! *hoooonk*
> 
> xx camp, in possession of a tremendously loud airhorn, dragging her penchant for angst-laden romance straight through the middle of this fic
> 
> ps - as always, elvhen translation(s) at end  
> pps - i will die without feedback on this one  
> ppps - i love you for reading this

 

One moment, Hara had been in Redcliffe Castle with Solas, the Iron Bull, and Dorian, listening to a power-mad magister explain that she was a mistake, a menace in the wrong place at the right time, the possessor of some sort of stolen magic—and the next, she was knee-deep in filthy water. She had felt so confident, just then, as Leliana’s scouts cut the throats of the magister’s Venatori lackeys. And then, a flash of light and Dorian’s voice, loud and desperate and close—“No!”

_What happened?_ She took inventory of herself quickly and noted her axe was still swung across her back with relief. Her ears were ringing and she felt incredibly nauseated; the room seemed to be spinning around her—and it was absolutely not the room she’d been in before. This was… a  _dungeon_? Otherwise, and all things considered, she supposed she was in tact. Just then, she heard someone give a shout of alarm and she had her axe in hand, muscle memory taking over.

It seemed she’d surprised a pair of armed guards— _how_ _had Leliana’s people missed them?_ She quickly crouched into a fighting stance as the first one approached her, his foul breath on her face as they prowled around one another in close quarters combat. She felt a magical barrier wash over her skin and breathed deeply in relief.  _Dorian._ It did not feel—or taste—like Solas’ magic. Wherever she was, she was grateful she was not here alone. She whirled her axe around and struck the guard in the stomach, blood rapidly blossoming from the deep wound she’d inflicted to his gut. Hara thought she smelled searing flesh and was impressed—in a horrifying sort of way—to see that Dorian had caught the other guard in a flash of fire, burning the man alive with his spell. Mercifully, the skirmish ended quickly.

“What happened?” Hara asked quickly as she rushed over to Dorian, taking inventory of his appearance. He appeared fine, no worse for wear aside from his clothing, which were absolutely filthy from the disgusting water they were standing in. 

“Displacement,” Dorian replied, crinkling his nose as he picked a chunk of singed flesh from Hara’s braid. “It’s probably not what Alexius intended. He opened a rift and it must’ve moved us… to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy?”

“In Common, Dorian, for me,” Hara pleaded, looking nervously around them. She hadn’t worn Solas’ water repellant foot wraps and her boots were absolutely waterlogged. 

“We moved,” he simplified.

“That, I already knew,” she snapped, feeling panic rise in her throat, making it difficult to breathe.  _It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine_ , she repeated to herself silently, a mantra to stave off the fear.

“I think we’re still in the castle, but it isn’t…” Dorian thought for a long moment, and Hara swore she could hear the wheels in his brain turning. “Oh! Of course! It’s not simply  _where_ —it’s  _when!_ Alexius used the amulet as a focus. It moved us through time!”

Hara felt sick. She tried to concentrate and willed herself to remain logical rather than emotional. She took a deep breath and steeled herself for the answer to the question she was about to ask. “Forwards or backwards? And can we get back?”

“I’m not sure, but we’ll have to find out,” Dorian replied. “Let’s have a look around, see where the rift took us. Then we can find out how to get back… if we can.”  

“Your confidence astounds me, especially given you helped invent this fucking magic,” Hara snapped sarcastically, covering her panic with derision. “Come on, let’s go.” She rattled the door of their cell and realized they were locked in with the guards they’d killed.  _Fantastic_. Dorian searched through the guards’ armor and mercifully found a set of keys. At least they could leave this fucking waterlogged dungeon.

She and Dorian escaped from their cell and explored the dungeon until they found a set of stairs. It led to… Another set of dungeons. “We’re well and truly fucked,” Hara said, taking in their surroundings. She was horrified to note red lyrium sprouting from the walls. 

“And not in the fun way,” Dorian finished, wrinkling his nose unpleasantly. “When I said I hated the decor, this was hardly the upgrade I had in mind.”

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” Hara whispered as she observed an elven man staring at them from a cell across the room. He was looking but not seeing, his face contorted in pain but the inflection of his voice oddly peaceful. Hara could see his lips moving but could not make out the words; she moved closer in an attempt to understand him. As she approached, she was horrified to realize he was someone she recognized—the elven servant bound to Alexius, the one who had announced the magister’s dominion over the rebel mages upon their arrival in Redcliffe.

“I know you,” Hara said, coming closer and trying to fit the keys Dorian had found into the door of the man’s cell. “Are you alright?” She found one that finally fit and opened the door wide, gesturing for him to come out.

He did not move.

He continued to speak.

“Andraste bless me, Andraste bless me, Andraste bless me,” he sang quietly, staring into her face with unseeing eyes.

“You’re free now,” Hara tried again, fear gripping tightly around her heart.

“Andraste guide me, Andraste guide me, Andraste guide me,” he continued.

Hara jumped when Dorian placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve done all we can for him,” he told her, regret and anger in his voice. It seemed Dorian recognized the man as well. “This is the most free he has ever been.”

She did not ask for clarification. Hara tore her eyes away from the terrible image at Dorian’s behest, following him up a second flight of stairs. It seemed that they’d shifted deep below the castle in their displacement; her eyes searched madly about for a sign, any sign, that Solas and the Iron Bull had been pulled through with them. She spotted movement out of the corner of her eye—human movement, someone lifting their head at the noise she and Dorian made as they had rushed up the stairs. It was…  _Gods._

“Fiona?” Hara whispered, approaching a cell that held the Grand Enchanter. Her upper body was visible but her lower half was entirely encapsulated in red lyrium. It thrummed around her and Hara felt an odd buzzing in the back of her skull, something akin to the hum of bees and whispered instructions to do something terrible— _kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself_. The sounds overlaid, harmonious yet discordant. If the buzzing in her mind hadn’t made her ill, Fiona’s appearance surely would have. She swallowed back the bile that had risen in her throat.

“You’re… Alive?” The Grand Enchanter begin, her voice tainted, an echo of an echo of itself, reminiscent of the red lyrium’s sick song. “How? I saw you… Disappear… Into the rift.” It must have been painful to speak; her brow furrowed and she took great, gasping breaths between every few words.

“Fiona, how can I help you?” Hara whispered, wanting to reach out to the woman but wary of the red crystals that surrounded her.

“You… Can’t…” she muttered. “Red lyrium… It’s a disease… The longer you’re near it… Eventually… You become this. Then… They mine your corpse… For more.”

“ _Maker_ ,” Dorian whispered from behind her, and Hara could not help but step back from Fiona’s cell. “Can you tell us the date?” Dorian pressed. “It’s very important.”

“Harvestmere… 9:42 Dragon,” Fiona supplied painfully. Hara was horrified to note that she could see Fiona’s breath; she was expelling a red mist with each laborious exhale. 

“We’ve missed an entire year,” Dorian said, struggling to keep the shock from his voice.

“We have to get back,” Hara explained, resisting the urge to reach out to Fiona, to provide some sort of physical contact in an effort to comfort. “Are the others here, Fiona? Solas? The Iron Bull?”

Fiona barely had the energy to nod. “Your spymaster, Leliana… She is here, too.” This last admission seemed to take the rest of her energy; Fiona leaned her head against the wall of her cell, staring listlessly at the dank stone.

With a whispered apology and promises to fix this—they might’ve been lies, for all she knew, but  _fenedhis_ , she had to say something—Hara and Dorian set off. They climbed another set of stairs. 

They found Solas first, standing with his back to the cell door, staring absentmindedly at the crumbling brick walls of the dungeon. Hara approached him tentatively, unsure if this was… really Solas, or something else, something tainted, like Fiona—like everything else she and Dorian had encountered thus far. He whipped around suddenly, apparently alerted by their footfalls, a savage, almost canine snarl on his face. It quickly shifted into incredulity and suspicion.

“Come to torture me with her visage?” Solas spat, and Hara was horrified at the tainted quality of his voice, the red haze around his eyes. It should not have surprised her, given Fiona’s appearance. It still did. 

“No,  _hahren_ ,” Hara said softly and she felt pulled to him, her feet carrying her forward towards the bars of his cell without her permission. “It’s me.”

“Prove it,” he commanded, his voice rough with the taint of red lyrium.

“ _Ma’ melin Harellan_ ,” she whispered, a shiver running up her spine at the sensation of her lips forming the syllables of her own name for the first time in years.

Solas’ expression shifted into something so tender she thought her heart might break. She’d seen flashes of pain, pity, and regret on his face before now—each time, because of something she’d said—but it was the first time she’d seen him look like this.  _Elated._ He reached a hand out to her between the bars of his cell, seeking her own. Hara laced her fingers through his, forgetting the risk of lyrium exposure, inexplicably drawn to him.

“You  _are_ here,” he murmured, searching her face in awe. “I thought I had lost you, but… You have come back to me.” He lifted his other hand, the one she hadn’t grasped with her own, and looked like he meant to reach through the bars to stroke her face. He stopped himself, capturing his lower lip between his teeth and gazing at her with such intensity she could not breathe. She felt her heart thud madly against her ribcage and struggled to find something to say.

“Solas?” She prompted quietly, suddenly acutely aware of Dorian’s presence behind her. He dropped her hand. The moment passed.

“How?” Solas asked as he fixed Dorian with an intense gaze. 

“The spell Alexius cast displaced us in time. We just got here, so to speak,” Dorian explained quickly. If he’d noticed the strange moment of intimacy between them, he did not comment on it and instead busied himself with unlocking Solas’ cell. 

“Can you reverse the process?” Solas rushed out, almost breathless in his excitement. Hara wondered how long it had been since he felt something like hope. “You could return and obviate the events of the last year! It may not be too late!”

“I will fix my mistake, I promise,” Hara said earnestly, grasping Solas’ hand in hers once more to convey the depth of her oath. 

“It was not your mistake,” Solas spat, and the vehemence in his voice terrified her. She dropped his hand like she’d been burned, shifting away from him and closer to Dorian. Solas schooled his face back into the calm, patient mask he wore so often. “If you can undo this, they can  _all_ be saved. But you know nothing of this world. It is far worse than you understand.”

“Go on,” Dorian pressed, his brow furrowed in concentration and concern.

“Alexius served a master—The Elder One. He reigns now, unchallenged. His minions assassinated Empress Celene and used the chaos to invade the south. This Elder One commands an army of demons.” Solas’ expression had hardened once more. “After we stop Alexius, you must be prepared. He will come with fire and fury.”

“Do you know where the others are?” Hara asked, scared to fan the spark of hope Solas had ignited in her chest.

“I do,” Solas said in a measured tone. “Come. Let us find the Iron Bull and retrieve the Nightingale, if she yet lives.”

Solas led them up a flight of stairs that opened up into yet another hall of cells, snatching a staff that lay forgotten on the floor as he led them through the dungeons. Hara snagged a great sword leaning against a wall—she doubted they’d imprisoned the Iron Bull with his weapon—before turning to take stock of their surroundings.

She was horrified at the sheer number of prisoners that might be held here; she had to force herself to stop thinking of how many comrades, how many acquaintances, how many strangers, how many  _children_ she had failed to save from this horrible fate. Hara held the grip of the great sword loosely in her hand, practically dragging it behind her as she and Dorian walked further down the dungeon’s halls in search of survivors. Solas kept his distance to monitor the entrance, on guard for Venatori activity lest they be ambushed in their distraction.

Hara found the Iron Bull quickly; his hulking form was hard to miss, and whoever had occupied the other cells and either died, or—she pushed the thought away. Hara did not want to think about the red lyrium growing rampant in the dungeons. “Hello, Bull,” she called softly in greeting. He regarded her with a narrowed eye, his jaw set.

“You’re not dead,” the Iron Bull said suspiciously. He looked her over carefully, staring almost hungrily at the great sword in her hand. She swallowed a wave of fear down thickly. “You’re  _supposed_ to be dead.” 

“Sorry to disappoint you!” Dorian replied cheerfully, and Hara knew he was posturing to stave off the panic. “Alexius didn’t kill us. His spell sent us through time. This is a rescue mission!” He waved his hand theatrically, drawing attention to Solas’ eerily still form guarding the entrance to the room. “See! Rescued!”

“Solas?” the Iron Bull began, suddenly observing the mage’s presence, squinting his eye in doubt. 

“It appears to be true,” Solas explained as he walked closer to Bull’s cell. “Strange as it may seem.”

Dorian moved to unlock the Iron Bull’s cell. Hara noted he was still regarding her with an angry, almost vengeful expression.

“We’re going to fix it,” she said, her voice hard, bolstered with a confidence she did not truly feel. She handed him the great sword and some of his suspicion seemed to dissipate—but not all. 

“Boss,” Bull began, narrowing his eye at her and gripping the great sword tightly, testing its weight after what she assumed were months without a weapon in his hand. “It was you. It was you that he wanted, and he ripped the fucking world apart to find you.”

“He would have ripped the world apart regardless,” Solas replied, his voice low and dangerous as he came to her defense, moving closer to her. Hara shivered at the tension in the room. 

“…True,” the Iron Bull said after a long moment. He stared at Hara, Dorian, and Solas in concentration for a long moment, as if he were assessing the situation, formulating some sort of a battle plan. Hara supposed he was. “Let’s find Red and kill some Tevinter bastards.”

 * * *

They found the Nightingale. What was left of her, anyway. It seemed she’d been… experimented on at Alexius’ behest; he had somehow discovered she was resistant to the blight and had made her into an alchemical plaything, feeding her blighted things and measuring the rate at which her body purged them. That she was still alive was amazing. That she still had strength enough to choke a man to death using only her thighs was nothing short of a miracle. 

The knowledge of Leliana’s twisted torture disgusted her unlike anything she’d seen in this future yet. Hara hoped it was the worst. She doubted it would be.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Leliana knew the location of Alexius’ quarters; even in spite of her captivity, she gathered information, hoarded secrets like little jewels of hope—a truly masterful player of the Game, as Cassandra had once said. The Nightingale led them to a door that could only be unlocked with strange shards of red lyrium that passed between the hands of his favored guards each day. It seemed the man’s paranoia knew no bounds.

Hara felt nothing as they killed their way through the castle in their efforts to collect the shards Alexius had made into a key to his chambers. She was relatively unscathed as they slew Alexius' guards, save from a nasty split in the middle of her lower lip when a mage she'd cornered had punched her in the mouth. She handed them all over to Dorian, her hands trembling too much to fit them into the magical lock that separated them from the man who had created this fucking mess. She wasn’t scared anymore, not really. She was bloodthirsty. She was vengeance embodied. She would get home. 

The magister was not surprised to see them.

“Here you are,” he muttered in greeting, staring into the flames of the massive fireplace in his chambers. He did not deign to look at them. “Finally. I knew that you would appear again. Not that it would be now, but I knew I hadn’t destroyed you. My final failure…” 

Hara opened her mouth to speak, but a question tumbled from Dorian’s lips before she could form the words, his tone broken and quiet. “Was it worth it?” He asked, his grief and disappointment palpable, “Everything you did to the world? To yourself?" 

“It doesn’t matter now,” Alexius replied in response. “All we can do is wait for the end.”

“It  _does_ matter,” Hara spat, her hands flexing as she tightened her grip on her axe, “I  _will_ undo this.”

“The past cannot be undone,” Alexius answered, finally turning around to face them. He looked much as he had before, and Hara was sick with rage. He had not been tainted with lyrium, though he’d caused countless deaths and endless suffering with it. “All that I fought for, all that I betrayed, and what have I wrought? Ruin and death. There is nothing else. The Elder One comes: for me, for you, for us all.”

Leliana appeared suddenly from the shadows— _when had she moved_? She was akin to a ghost, a frail, sickly man who had been crouched by Alexius’ fireplace in her arms. She held the flat of her knife against his throat. With horror, Hara realized who he was. 

“Felix!” The magister cried in alarm, hand outstretched towards Leliana, a plea on his breath.

“That’s  _Felix_?” Dorian gasped, his voice low and broken, “Alexius, what have you done?”

“He would have died, Dorian!” Alexius shouted, a crazed look in his eyes as his gaze flitted back and forth between Dorian and the Nightingale, her blade glinting ominously against Felix’s throat in the firelight. “Please!” He begged Leliana, “Don’t hurt my son! Let him go and I’ll give you anything you want!”

“I want the world back,” Leliana spat as she ran her blade across Felix’s throat, his black, blighted blood spilling messily on the carpet beside Alexius’ throne.

The magister wailed and opened rift after rift, summoned wave after wave of demons, but it was no match for their collective fury. Exhausted from casting, Alexius stumbled backwards into an ice mine Solas had lain on the floor behind him. Hara wasted no time. She swung her axe in a great circle, tearing through the sinews of the magister's neck, a force driven by adrenalin, hatred, and terror at what he had wrought. He was dead before he hit the floor, his headless form crumpled, lifeless, useless next to Felix’s blighted body, a son he tore the world apart to save. 

“He wanted to die,” Dorian said sadly, his eyes downcast. He could not look at the remnants of the magister's body, could not look at Hara or her two-headed axe, coated in the thick red sheen of his mentor's blood. “All those lies he told himself… Those justifications…”

“Death was too kind for him,” Hara spat. She kneeled down next to the magister’s body and pried the amulet out of his cold, dead hands. She offered it wordlessly to Dorian, who looked it over carefully, turning his back to the gruesome scene. He seemed gratified by what he saw.

“This is the same amulet he used before,” he muttered, “I think it’s the same one we made in Minrathous. That’s a relief. Give me an hour to work out the spell he used, and I should be able to reopen the rift. 

Hara’s marked hand sparked madly, and the pain that followed was so intense she could hardly stand. It had not hurt this badly since she’d awoken in Haven’s dungeon; she gritted her teeth, doubled over in pain, taking great, gasping breaths in an effort to overcome the agony pulsing through her. Solas was at her side in seconds, pressing his palm against her own, his magic connecting with the anchor in a way she had never seen before. A wave of relief crashed over her and she opened her mouth to ask him what he’d done, but a great rumbling shook the chamber, a chorus of many otherworldly screams filling their ears. The question died on her lips. 

“The demons!” Leiliana shouted, knocking an arrow to her bow. “You must go now!” She placed herself in front of Dorian, promising to protect him as he murmured incantations over the talisman. 

The Iron Bull readied himself, his face set, jaw clenched, eye wide and bloodthirsty. “I got you, Boss,” he said, rushing forwards, making himself a wall between them and the demonic army bashing against the door.

Solas took several steps in Bull’s direction before he suddenly stopped himself. He turned to face Hara and stared at her for a long moment, his gaze fixed on her face—her vallaslin, her eyes, her mouth—before inhaling sharply and crossing the room to her. He pulled her close, his hands skirting along her hips with an intimacy they had never shared before. He fixed her with the most impassioned look she’d ever seen, from him or from anyone.

It looked like love.

“What I said before,” he began, his voice thick with emotion.

"Solas," she interrupted, meaning to question his proximity, though she knew it would be impossible for her to push him away. He cupped her face and brushed his thumb across her split, bloody lower lip to silence her, the motion undertaken with such tenderness she stopped breathing at the sensation.

“What I said before,” he repeated, looking deeply into her eyes, his blue orbs locked with her amber ones intensely, “This is not your fault. It is  _mine_.”

Hara inhaled sharply, ready to protest—but he lowered his head to hers, and any response she might have had vanished at the sensation of his lips brushing against her ear, his breath warm against the pointed shell.

“Please,  _vhenan_ ,” Solas whispered, “Tell me not to make this mistake again.”

He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and shoved her roughly away towards Dorian, just as a wave of demons burst through the chamber door. She could taste his magic crackling wildly around them, could see his unfettered power, the anchor sparking wildly in response despite his earlier efforts to quiet it. Hara started to move, to join the fray, the magic in her palm screaming to be used, her heart screaming to give them all a fighting chance. Dorian seemed to sense her intentions and grasped her unmarked hand firmly in his, his concentration so intense that he did not break his casting for even a moment. 

She felt hot tears roll down her face as she watched the Iron Bull and Leliana die, and though Hara could not see him, a scream ripped from her throat as she  _felt_ Solas’ magic disappear. Hara felt a sickening tug in the center of her chest—something like her heart breaking as she was moved through space and time—and the chamber’s image faded from her view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fenedhis - a Dalish curse, lit. wolf dick  
> hahren - elder  
> ma' melin Harellan - my name is Harellan (rebel)  
> vhenan - (my) heart


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit of smut, a lot of sad (moderately NSFW, TW for fleeting suicidal ideation and mentions of self-harm)
> 
> xx camp
> 
> Elvhen translations at end

When she and Dorian came back through, she could barely contain herself. Tears spilling unbidden down her cheeks, she strode to Alexius and punched him squarely in the face. He’d been spouting some nonsense about how his plans had been spoiled, and she’d just… hit him. Intensely. Her fist came away with the bright red splotches of his fresh blood, and she knew she’d broken his nose.

“You deserve so much fucking more than this,” she spat, reaching up to hold his chin in her hand, forcing the magister to meet her gaze as Leliana’s people surrounded him. Her own lip was still split from the fighting and a thin trail of blood dribbled down her chin. “And you’ll get it, in time,” she promised. And he would. She intended to make him wish he were dead. She knew, logically, that deciding someone’s fate was decidedly outside her scope of influence, but no. He was hers. Knowing and feeling are two different things.

* * *

It was later, in the Gull and Lantern, that she came undone. She had sat quietly in her room, hashing through the horrors of the day, eyes staring, unfocused—but seeing so much—as she concentrated blankly on the wall in front of her. Hara had just finished writing her report of the encounter with Alexius and the Venatori in Redcliffe Castle and their foray into that dark, twisted future, of her decision to offer the mages a full alliance after King Alistair and Queen Anora swiftly revoked their permission to remain in Redcliffe. She hoped she would not regret it; truthfully, the mages were the least of her concerns right now. Now that she’d relived it on paper, she could not shake the images of that twisted future from her mind.

She saw Leliana’s throat cut, her blood spilling messily on the tile as a demon ripped through her flesh with a polished claw and a deafening scream. She remembered the Elven mage bound to Alexius— _Andraste bless me, Andraste bless me, Andraste bless me_ —and wanted to claw her own eyes out when she realized she could not recall his name. Her gut twisted as she recalled Solas—tainted with red lyrium but mostly calm once he realized she was _real_ , strategizing about how she and Dorian could undo this mess and save them all from a mistake he dared to claim as his own.

She tried not to think about the strange intimacy they’d shared before he strode to his death—his hand on her face, his thumb brushed against her lip—sacrificing his life to ensure she and Dorian could make it home.

She was incapable of thinking of anything else.

Hara was chewing her bottom lip roughly, turning it this way and that between her teeth, ignoring the blood slowly blossoming from the tear she’d caused to reopen at the center. He’d brought her close, hands skirting along her hips like they’d belonged there before, fixed her with a gaze that was unmistakably tender— _it had looked like love_ —before he bent to whisper in her ear. _Please, vhenan… tell me not to make this mistake again._ Then he’d brushed his lips across her forehead and pushed her away roughly, practically into Dorian’s arms, and strode away from her to face the demons that threatened to overwhelm them, magic cracking wildly around him, so powerful she could taste it.

This, she’d left out of the report. She told herself it was because she wasn’t sure it had happened at all, hadn’t been able to make enough sense out of it to confirm it hadn’t been a lyrium-induced hallucination. His magic had been so… intense, so strange, and the magic in her hand had been connected with his energy in a way she could not remember experiencing before. Dorian had said nothing. Perhaps he was ignorant. Perhaps he was kind. Either way, she could not stop thinking about the words he’d said. Most of them, anyway. 

She couldn’t bring herself to hash through the diminutive he’d called her, so out of character and misaligned to their present relationship as it was. 

She focused instead on the _mistake_. As if anyone but she could’ve fucked things up so royally they’d wound up in that mess. What was it the Iron Bull had said, as he regarded her with a clenched jaw and a narrowed eye?

_Boss, it was you. It was you that he wanted, and he ripped the fucking world apart to find you._

If the Maker or the Creators existed, had ever existed, she was sure they were laughing bitterly at her now. She’d been nothing to nobody for so long, and now, to be finally wanted by a time-twisting magister and this Elder One, a being who would tear the world apart to rebirth it in his cruel, sick image—but not before murdering Empress Celene and raising an army of demons. _Fenedhis._ Hara did not attach nearly the same meaning to the Dread Wolf as the clan, not even in the slightest—but by Dalish standards, this certainly seemed like something he’d be connected to. _Perhaps he’s caught my scent_ , she thought wryly, _one traitor to another_. She’d prefer it if nobody wanted her after all.

Hara considered wandering downstairs to the tavern to drink the thoughts away—she was all-but-positive Dorian would be there, and he would understand where her head was, he would just have to—but she didn’t deserve the escape that ale or wine or whiskey could provide. She imagined strange whispers in the silence of her room, could almost hear the red lyrium humming to her again— _kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself_. She briefly considered it, weighed the costs and benefits of cutting her own throat. It was only a passing thought. She wanted to rationalize that if this Elder One desired her and she was found dead, that he would stop. Surely, he’d have to. But then, logic whispered, _You have to seal the Breach. People and spirits can be spared, so long as you pay with your blood in the end._ What was it that Solas said? _If you can undo this, they can all be saved._

Regardless of whatever role she had to play to prevent this awful future from coming to pass, she could still suffer. It was better than just sitting there, rehashing horrors she could not fix.

Resolved to do something, Hara pushed herself to her feet. She hated the cold, so the cold could have her. With the graceless gait of one who was genuinely drunk—and _Gods_ , she wished she were—she stumbled out of her room, down the staircase, and into the tavern below. Dorian was positioned at the bar as expected, a glass of some viscous, red liquid in hand, an elegant eyebrow raised at her sudden appearance. She clenched her jaw and shook her head. _No,_ she hoped the gesture conveyed, _I want to be alone._ He worked at his own jaw in return and gave her a solemn nod, all grandeur and posturing set aside. They had shared something, seen something, that was beyond posturing, beyond anything. Hara knew in her bones he would be a steadfast ally.

And yet.

She craved solitude. Hara pushed open the door and relished the uncomfortable chill of the air that enveloped her once she had left the tavern. She stumbled almost blindly down to Redcliffe’s docks, an odd feeling that the cold purity of the water would shock or cleanse her in some way. She intended to dunk herself in and sit in the freezing water. Half of her wanted to argue that it was so she’d come to her senses, but the other half knew her heart was seeking punishment for all she’d done, failed to do, and could fail to become in the future.

As she stumbled down the cobblestone path and reached the docks, she spotted a familiar figure. Solas. Barring Alexius or this Elder One he served, he was last person she wanted to see right now. It was the second time she’d truly loathed his visage, the first having been the morning after she’d gotten so spectacularly drunk and he commanded her to share the secret of her vallaslin in Haven’s tavern, before her given name had tumbled from his lips and sent more secrets pouring out of her. He was down near the water, his back to a set of shoddy wooden cabins, staring at Lake Calenhad with a kind of forlorn intensity that could only belong to him. His form brought forth horrible memories of his Other self in that false future, proclaiming her innocence and waxing poetically about his own guilt. _Please, vhenan_ …

It stoked a rage in her she hadn’t felt so deeply since her grandfather had died. He, too, had tried to assuage of her of her guilt. She thought suddenly of his frail figure swathed in a single blanket, the same blanket that had failed to warm him as he shivered and died alongside her all those years ago. _No, da’len, take it,_ she remembered him saying that winter night as he pushed his blanket on top of her malnourished body. She had been guilty ever since.

Hara moved towards Solas with purpose, her stride short but efficient, the shakiness almost dissipated from her limbs. He was watching her approach with a troubled look on his face, his mouth downturned in concern. Solas opened his mouth to speak, but she did not allow it. She didn’t want to hear his fucking voice, not now, not with echoes of the words he’d spoken to her in that horrible future rattling around in her brain.

She pushed him once. Twice. Three times, goading him to hit her. She wanted his wrath, needed it. She couldn’t bear anything else, couldn’t bear the tenderness he’d shown her in that false future, needed the security of their _old_ relationship—their discord, their friction, their contention. He peered back at her with narrowed blue orbs, his jaw set as he looked both surprised and distraught by her behavior. Angry, too. She could sense the heat in his gaze, knew he was confused by her behavior, but there was another emotion underneath it. Pity, remorse.

She could not bear it.

“Fucking come on,” Hara goaded, and pushed him again. “Do something! Do _something_!” She yelled, voice raspy and raw, ignoring the pinpricks at the corners of her eyes. She contemplated socking him sharply across the jaw, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She remembered the way he’d looked at her before he’d sacrificed himself. She knew it hadn’t been _real,_ but _fuck_ , there was something so… raw and desperate about him as he’d proclaimed her innocence, taken responsibility for something he couldn’t possibly have done, called her _his heart_. She could not bring herself to hit him; she couldn’t even bring herself to ask him what it all meant, terrified that saying the words out loud would make it real. It was another failing, another lack of will. Forceless, faithless, useless.

Powerless.

She went to push him a fourth time, mustering up the energy to shove him roughly away from her, when he reached up to grab her wrists. Solas’ touch was gentle, but firm. He held her hands above her head, controlling her range of motion. She glared back up at him in response. She couldn’t manage to get enough traction to push him at this range, and it angered her even further. If she couldn’t draw his ire, his scorn, some painful twist of his hands, she was lost. Utterly lost. Powerless once again, unable to effect an outcome, just like in the horrible tainted darkness she’d drug herself and Dorian through to get back here, to this other side, to this fucking mess she feared she wouldn’t save in the end. 

She wanted him to hurt her. She deserved it, after all.

He still hadn’t said anything. She goaded again. “Cat got your tongue, _hahren_? I know how you must feel about me. If you hate the Dalish, what am I to you? A shadow of a shadow? I can’t even _pretend_ correctly,” she spat. He said nothing and she couldn’t stop herself. “I hardly expected you to lose your voice now; you’ve shared your ire and irritation with me so readily these past months, I can’t imagine why you’d—“ 

Solas finally silenced her.

His mouth crushed roughly against hers, a perfect counterbalance to the gentle grip in which he held her hands. Her eyes widened in shock and she stood, immobile, unsure. Assessing. Hara didn’t know what to do with this. She’d pushed him, disrespected him, tried to draw his ire, expected fire and ice and fury, but this? 

This was not what she’d expected.

He drew back quickly as if remembering himself. Hara stared up at him, eyes wide and lips somewhat swollen from his rough kiss, her mouth tingling pleasantly. She had the impulse to place her fingers against her mouth, to make sure it had been real, but her hands were still captive in his. He returned her gaze with a look of uncertainty, eyes traveling across her vallaslin and resting on her lips. She felt him begin to pull away, his grip on her wrists loosening until he released her hands, reading regret in the lines of his mouth.

She stopped him.

Hara tugged him towards her, the front of his sweater fisted in her hand, and kissed him with the same rough intensity. Solas inhaled sharply, and for a long moment, did nothing—until she felt his mouth move tentatively against hers, returning the kiss with less intensity. It was still intoxicating.

Hara slipped her tongue into his mouth as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down towards her and closing the considerable distance between them, mismatched in height as they were. Hara felt more than heard the low moan in the back of his throat as he led her backwards, away from the docks and closer to the cabins behind them, his tongue gliding against hers, exploring her mouth deeply, thoroughly. She heard water lick softly against the docks and the sound seemed incredibly far away.

Hara was thinking again. What was she doing? _This is a terrible idea._ She figured she should say as much, but she couldn’t manage to keep herself away from him now that she knew what he tasted like. Elfroot, peppermint, and, very faintly, ale— _had he shared a drink with Dorian?—_ and she could not make herself stop. Not for long, anyway.

“This,” she started between rushed kisses, “is a”—kiss—“terrible”—kiss—“idea.”

“I know,” he practically growled against her mouth.

“Why, then?” She all but moaned the question as her hands wandered across the expanse of his chest; she gave a small gasp of surprise as they came in contact with the jawbone he wore corded around his neck. She wrapped it once around her hand, giving it an experimental tug, reminded of the first time he’d said her name in Haven. Solas’ face lowered against her neck and later, she would swear she could feel him breathing her in, memorizing her scent.

He growled again, wordless this time, his lips sliding a hot trail across the cold skin of her neck, teeth dragging against her collarbone, hips pressing against hers, guiding her roughly back against the wall of a cabin. The noise he made did things to her she wasn’t sure were possible; every inch of her body felt electrified, responsive, intensely connected to him. She relished in the feeling of the wood behind her scraping against her skin and she sought more of the sensation, her head spinning with the pleasure of Solas’ tongue sliding languidly down the nape of her neck and the pain she’d been chasing earlier. He bit a trail back up her neck before running the tip of his nose against the shell of her ear. When he took the slender, pointed tip into his mouth, she couldn’t contain her breathless cry of surprise, or the embarrassing whine of pleasure she tried—and failed—to bite back afterwards. 

“Knowing and feeling are two different things,” Solas whispered lowly in her ear, chuckling dangerously. Hara felt heat coil in her belly and her legs parted slightly, the movement more instinctual than intentional. He took the opportunity to slip his thigh between her legs and she could not stop herself from rocking her hips against him, chasing friction against her center, feeling warmth pooling between her legs.

“Fuck,” she said breathily, head tilting back against the wall, exposing more of the tender skin of her neck to his mouth. Solas laved his tongue against a particularly sensitive spot just below her ear, his hands creeping tentatively along the hard plane of her stomach, fingertips brushing across the linen of the loose tunic she’d hastily donned out of fear of red lyrium exposure when they returned from Redcliffe Castle. He moved his hands underneath the hem of the thin fabric as he continued to lavish attentions on her neck, fingertips burning a trail across her abdomen; she could feel his calloused hands around her waist and she was afraid she’d come undone right there. _Gods,_ it had been years since she’d been touched like this, and never _really_ like this.

“Please, Solas,” she practically keened, too distracted by the feeling of his hands against her skin to feel embarrassed about the breathy desperation that characterized her voice. 

“Please what?” He asked coyly, his voice low, the tone dangerous as his hands moved lower, brushing against the laces of her breeches.

“Please, I just need…” she continued, but was driven to distraction when he grasped her hips firmly, circling her hip bones with his thumbs through the fabric of her breeches. She was practically grinding her hips against his hands, seeking something, anything to release the ache building inside of her.

“ _Ahn_?” he asked again, in Elvhen this time, resting his forehead against hers, gazing intensely into her eyes. Watching him watch her was incredibly intoxicating and her breath hitched in her throat. She was truly lost now, struck by his depths, feeling raw, exposed. The intensity was almost crushing and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe, remembered him whisper _vhenan_ to her in that false, tainted future, a future she was terrified would come to pass as a result of her ineptitude, her failures, her inability to do anything right.

She shattered.

“To fix my mistakes,” she whispered, the depth of her self-hatred betrayed in the crack in her voice, her lust replaced with fear and regret. _And yours_. She could not bring herself to say those last two words. She knew that if she opened her mouth again, she would come unglued.

“Harellan,” he began softly, and he looked to be searching for words. He had not said her name since the Storm Coast and she had not shared it with anyone else; to hear it for a third time after so many years undid her. The tenderness in his gaze coupled with the utterance of her name was crushing, and she felt hot tears begin to spill down her cheeks. He brushed one hand down the length of her jaw and smoothed his thumb over her lower lip, his other hand suddenly tangled in the remnants of her braid. The feeling of his thumb against her mouth utterly destroyed her, reminiscent as it was to his actions in that tainted future. She could not breathe, her sobs choked from the lack of air, and he pulled her closer still.

He brought her head against his chest and she melted against him, the exhaustion of the day and the intensity of her emotions finally overcoming her. He guided her gently down to the ground and pulled her against his chest, her face pressed against his neck.

* * *

He held her there, his back pressed against the wood of the cabin, and allowed her to spill her tears in silence. Solas knew her well enough by now that he realized saying anything would make things exponentially worse; she’d shut down, lash out, say or do something to draw scorn rather than pity. He knew too well the crushing weight of duty—and the gut-wrenching pain of miscalculations made in the service of that duty. He could not understand her perceived mistake, given that all she’d shared about her experience with time travel thus far was that she and Dorian had been drawn to a false, tainted future that she could not allow to come to pass. The pain of such mistakes, however? No one knew better than he.

So he just held her there, allowing her to soak the collar of his sweater with her tears. For how long, he could not say. Time was sometimes difficult for him to grasp, even now. 

When he carried her sleeping form back to the tavern as the sun began to stain the sky pink, he locked eyes with Dorian, still up, still drinking, looking as haunted as he knew the woman in his arms felt. Their eyes met in shared understanding, and they exchanged solemn nods.

It was an unspoken contract written between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry not sorry? 
> 
> vhenan - (my) heart  
> hahren - elder  
> ahn - what  
> fenedhis - a Dalish curse, lit. wolf dick


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OKAY i couldn't help myself - i had to post something less serious immediately. starts angsty, ends... well, you decide. 
> 
> xx camp

It had been four days since she’d spoken more than a handful of words to any of them: not to Dorian, not to the Iron Bull, and certainly not to Solas.

She and Dorian had shared their respective written reports before sending them along to the Nightingale by raven, so Solas and Bull were aware of the general timeline of the events they had experienced despite their hesitancy to speak of them directly. Dorian hadn’t included anything in his report about the strange intensity of Solas’ magic, or the connection she and Solas seemed to share (magical and otherwise) in that false future.

Hara was not convinced he had not noticed something. She could see Dorian watching her sometimes, curiosity mixed with pain in his eyes, but she didn’t know if it had to do with the magic they’d experienced or the misery they’d shared. Perhaps it was both, but she couldn’t speak of it, not yet, and she knew he wouldn’t either. Wondering would have to be enough, for now.

Hara knew they were all growing concerned (or perhaps impatient, or perhaps both) with her silence, but she just didn’t have the energy to move her mouth. Truthfully, she was terrified she’d start crying if she attempted to engage with them.

 _You alright, Boss?_ Bull had asked on her second day of silence, and all she’d been able to do was shrug one shoulder as tears pooled behind her eyes, the effort to keep from crying straining the back of the throat. She did not let even one tear fall and considered it a victory. Something about her disconnected pain seemed to resonate with the Qunari; he offered to let her hit him with a branch he broke off from an old oak tree they’d passed near the Crossroads on their journey back to Haven. She did actually think it might help, but she was just so fucking drained.

“Maybe later, Bull,” she’d responded quietly. When she refused, he offered to hit her instead. Solas had been furious, Dorian barked a short laugh, and Hara tried to offer up a tight smile. Only one corner of her mouth lifted and it didn’t reach her eyes.

 _Harellan…_ Solas addressed her softly on the third day as he rode his stark white stallion next to her dapple grey. There was something especially heartbreaking about hearing her name on his lips again—for the fourth time, and yes, she was counting—and she spurred her mount far ahead of him. He did not try to ride next to her again.

She hadn’t spoken one word to him, not since their shared intimacy beside Redcliffe’s docks. She was more ashamed of her vulnerability than the desperation with which she’d kissed him and knew that it must mean something terribly broken about herself. Her shame sent her careening away from him. To think he’d carried her exhausted, tear-spent form back to the inn… She hadn’t felt so humiliated in years.

Dorian was the easiest to bear. He’d spoken little more than she had, and any time they rode beside one another, he silently passed her a flask of something dark and heady. It burned her throat all the way down and brought an uncomfortable flush to her skin, but she found she couldn’t feel the tightness of tears in the back of her throat when she drank it. At night, she pushed her bedroll close to his, and when he woke from nightmares, she plied him with alcohol. He would’ve done the same for her if she’d slept more than twenty minutes at a time. On the fourth day, they ran out.

On the fifth day, they arrived back in Haven.

Mercifully, they arrived at an odd time—after the evening meal but before the thickest part of night wrapped itself around the village—and any millers-about who might have been waiting for them had either gone to bed or to the tavern in search of an evening’s diversion. Hara noted a low flame burning in Harritt’s forge, but it seemed he had turned in for the evening; she could see Blackwall and Sera talking in front of a cabin near the blacksmith’s, their figures illuminated in the dim glow of the hearth. 

Solas and Dorian dismounted from their horses—Solas from the white stallion he’d claimed for himself, and Dorian from a rather lackluster steed he had borrowed from a scout. It did not fit him at all. Bull was still astride a great Rivaini warhorse he’d brought with him from the Storm Coast, something he called an Asaarash that did not have a name but was steadfastly dedicated to its duty and bore its enormous rider without complaint. The horse reminded Hara of what Bull had told her about the Qun; it made her oddly sad, though she was guilty of allowing her dapple grey to remain nameless as well. It was hard to get attached to something you didn’t allow yourself to love enough to name.

Hara was trying to work up the energy to dismount when she noted Sera tearing towards them with almost alarming speed, a vengeful look on her countenance, unevenly cut hair flying behind her as she ran. 

“You!” Sera said angrily when she reached their party, pointing at Solas with undisguised disgust on her face and blame in her eyes. “You were _supposed_ to frigging help her! Magical expert my arse!” The archer grasped Hara’s hand and tugged her down from the dapple grey; she stumbled at the abruptness of the action, leaning onto Sera in an effort to regain her footing.

“Stole _your_ stupid report from the spymaster,” Sera continued, addressing Dorian this time, her fury palpable as she swung an arm around Hara’s shoulders. “Can’t believe you’d just let her get… sucked into the future like that!" 

Hara saw both Dorian and Solas open their mouths to say something in response, but Sera’s glowering look seemed to cow them into silence. “And _you_ ,” Sera said, addressing the Iron Bull, “Tell them in the Chantry—you know, Sourpuss, Stabby, Ladybits, and Jackboot”—Hara supposed these were her nicknames for Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen—“to leave her _alone_ for now." 

If the Iron Bull had any doubts as to whom Sera was talking about, he did not share them. He squinted his eye and nodded in nonverbal agreement.

“ _You’re_ coming with me, far, far away from elfy elves and magic bullshit,” Sera said, addressing Hara directly for the first time. She did not have the energy to argue and truthfully, she’d rather endure Sera’s abrasive concern than the looks on the advisors’ faces as she attempted to explain what had happened. Sera laced her fingers through Hara’s unmarked hand and dragged her away from the stables, leaving the Iron Bull, Solas, and Dorian with the task of situating the horses and explaining her absence.

Sera led her away from Haven’s gates, apparently with the intention of getting her as far away as possible from the Chantry—and the inevitability of sharing a first-hand account of the events at Redcliffe, _and_ attending to the influx of rebel mages, _and_ planning their assault on the Breach. Hara recognized the path as one that led a cabin that had once belonged to Adan’s mentor, Master Taigen. Hara wondered what Sera could possibly want with the old alchemist’s quarters as she all-but-shoved her through the cabin door. The archer quickly lit a candle on a desk pushed against one wall before rifling impatiently through a drawer, hunting for something.

“There you are!” Sera announced, her voice proud and oddly tender at the same time. She turned back around to face Hara, cradling an object in her hands like a mother with a newborn babe, the same devotion on her face as if it were her own child she was holding.

“Here,” Sera said, gently handing Hara a hand carved pipe filled with something that looked suspiciously like dried elfroot.

 _Did she mean for her to smoke it?_ She suddenly relived a memory of smoking elfroot with a handful of teenage boys after her grandfather passed. They had climbed up onto a roof in the alienage late at night and watched the stars, bullshitting about something or another as they passed a shoddily rolled joint back and forth between the four of them. It was before Deshanna had collected her from the alienage, a particularly rebellious moment when she’d been overcome with the desire to tamp down her feelings in any way possible. She wished she could recall their names.

Hara forced herself from her reverie and raised an eyebrow, giving Sera an appraising look. She’d only smoked it once, hadn’t liked how it made her feel—disoriented, sloppy, and incredibly hungry. She was always hungry back then, scarce as proper food was in the alienage. She wouldn’t have smoked the stuff if she had known it would exacerbate the ache in her empty stomach.

“Come on!” Sera pressed, striking a match against the heel of her boot. She’d produced it from inside the boot’s shaft and Hara idly wondered what else the archer had stuffed down there. “Turns all your bad feelings into good feelings!”

Hara pinched the bridge of her nose between her index finger and her thumb and took a deep breath. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Sera,” she argued weakly.

“All I have are good ideas,” Sera complained, “You’ve just been with stuffy shitebags for too long. All that magic go to your head, or what?”

It had, in fact, gone to her head, yes—but she doubted Sera wanted to hear about it, and what could harm could it do to partake a bit? Hara shrugged one shoulder and accepted the pipe from her, leaning close to the archer to allow her to light the bowl. She drew in a long, steady breath and held the smoke in her lungs for several seconds before blowing it out through her nose.

Hara passed the pipe to Sera, stifling back coughs as the smoke irritated her lungs. It had been a while since she’d smoked anything—certainly not elfroot and she’d never been keen on tobacco, either, though she sometimes shared rolled cigarettes with a few of her hunting companions back with Clan Lavellan. It seemed to keep them awake and focused on particularly long expeditions but they were a rare commodity, only garnered through trade in Wycome.

“You look like a dragon,” Sera said, grinning. “Wanna see what I can do?”

“Yes,” Hara answered, a bit of enthusiasm in her voice as she watched Sera pull an impressively large amount of smoke into her lungs. 

Sera held it for a few moments before leaning back and puffing great, big smoke circles out through her lips. She sent smaller and smaller circles through the larger ones above her head, and Hara was mesmerized as the patterns lingered in the air.

“That’s really impressive,” Hara murmured as she accepted the pipe back from Sera. The cherry in the pipe had gone out and Sera anticipated her need, retrieving another match from her boot and reigniting the bowl. Hara took another long pull from the pipe and attempted to mimic Sera’s smoke rings, but all she managed to do was produce a rather large, strangely round cloud.

“Just need a bit of practice,” Sera commented encouragingly as she sprawled out on the cabin’s dirty floor, placing her arms behind her head in a makeshift pillow. Hara noticed the glassiness of the archer’s eyes, her pupils dilated to big, black circles around the hazel-blue of her iris. Sera looked rather pretty in the dim glow of the candlelight—younger, less brash, innocent even—and Hara wondered where she’d grown up, if she had a family, if she’d been wrestled as suddenly into adulthood as she had been.

“Where are you from, Sera?” Hara asked suddenly, her lips forming the question before she was aware she was asking it. She felt… addled and terribly slow, each movement of her mouth feeling strangely deliberate.

“Wherever,” Sera responded vaguely, giving Hara a somewhat suspicious look, as if she wondered what she planned to do with that piece of information. “You?”

“Nowhere,” Hara replied, “Not anymore.”

It did not take long for Sera to fall asleep, soft snores accentuating the cabin’s sleepy, almost dreamlike atmosphere. It seemed the elfroot had a sedating effect on her—complete and total relaxation. Hara wondered if Sera would dream in that state and decided she’d ask her whenever she woke up. She hunted about the cabin, found an old blanket shoved in one corner and flung it out several times, shaking dust and cobwebs off before laying it over Sera’s sleeping form.

*** * ***

Hara left Sera to her slumber in Master Taigen’s cabin with the intention of finding Dorian, though she had precious little energy to search the village for him; her head felt cloudy and she had the odd sensation she was floating more than walking. She hovered past Blackwall near Harritt’s forge and greeted him with a weak wave. He nodded his head solemnly in return, and Hara wondered if they had all heard about her foray into that fucked up future.

She passed through Haven’s gates and drifted up the path towards the tavern; Hara thought she could hear Dorian’s voice mingling with the Iron Bull’s and—Varric’s, too, perhaps. She should’ve known Dorian would be drinking again. She had no doubt they’d have drank the entire way back to Haven if they’d had the spirits. 

Hara paused for a long moment in front of the tavern door. Much as she wanted to be with Dorian, suddenly compelled to find out what he knew, what he remembered, if anything, about the strange intensity of Solas’ magic in that tainted future, she was absolutely not keen on having that conversation in the tavern, surrounded by prying eyes and ears and Varric’s relentless note taking.

It was a testament to the strength of Sera’s herb that she sought out Solas instead. Hara felt like she was levitating as she followed the path to his cabin and rapped her knuckles gently against the door. He answered momentarily, a piece of what looked like charcoal in his hand, some smudged underneath one eye. She supposed he had been drawing. 

“Hara,” Solas greeted in alarm, surprised at her sudden appearance. She supposed that made sense, given the wall of silence she’d rebuilt between them. She blinked at him intelligently, a small smile gracing her lips as she reached up to clean the smudge off of him. 

“You had something, just there,” she supplied in response, reading the question in the lines of his face, trying to remember why she’d knocked on his door in the first place.

“…Would you like to come in?” Solas asked after a long moment. She shrugged in response but brushed past him as he stepped aside to hold the door open for her.

Hara tugged off her muddy boots and placed them near the cabin’s entrance after he closed the door. She was faintly aware that it had been several moments since she said anything. Solas was looking at her with an appraising gaze; he seemed to be assessing her for something, but what, she could not say. Her thoughts felt terribly cloudy.

“You are high,” Solas finally accused, his tone disapproving but gentle at the same time. She was vaguely aware that she was leaning forward and he placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her. His palm felt incredibly warm through the thin linen of her shirt and she suddenly thought about the feeling of his hands elsewhere. A subtle blush colored her cheeks, accentuating her freckles in the dim light of his cabin. 

“I am not,” Hara lied. Her tongue felt thick inside her mouth and it took effort to force it to shape the words. _So much effort for just three words?_ No wonder she’d stopped speaking to him.

“I can smell the smoke on your breath, _lethallan_ ,” Solas argued. “Am I correct in assuming Sera is responsible for this?”

“She made me,” Hara lied again, working her face into something she hoped looked like innocence. The flash of anger across his face sent her backpedalling quickly. “Wait, no! _I_ made me. She just offered.”

“I see,” he responded, his features shifting into something calmer but still admonitory in nature. He lifted his other hand to steady her opposite shoulder and she was vaguely aware she’d begun to lean in the opposite direction. She felt a bit like a tree waiting to fall, swaying this way and that before it ultimately collapsed. “Perhaps you should go to bed." 

“You can’t make me,” Hara said petulantly, lifting her chin at him in defiance.

Solas released her shoulders to pinch the bridge of his nose between his fingers in exasperation and took what Hara assumed was a deep, steadying breath. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” she finally offered, trying desperately hard to remain upright without assistance. “Were you sketching?”

“I was,” Solas confirmed as he regarded her, the bridge of his nose still pinched between his fingers. He offered nothing more.

“Can I see?” Hara asked, her curiosity piqued.

“It is not finished,” he replied in denial, though his tone was soft. Perhaps it was the elfroot, but she imagined he looked a little guilty. “You really should go to bed, Herald.” The formality teased out a strange ache in her chest.

“Please don’t make me leave,” she pleaded, the words tumbling from her mouth before she considered the gravity of the request.

“If you intend to stay here, you _must_ sleep,” Solas replied after an excruciatingly long moment of silence. “You have not slept more than a few hours in the past week.”

There was no point in denying it; she could hardly hide her restlessness from him on the road and she had been avoiding sleep like the plague. She knew what would happen if the Fade got its hands on her and she was in no mood to deal with demons. She offered to keep every watch, both out of paranoia and fear of what might await her in dreams.

“Do I have to?” Hara complained, and if her head hadn’t felt so foggy, she would’ve been embarrassed at the whine in her voice.

“You once asked me if one could learn to control their dreaming,” Solas replied slowly. Hara raised her eyebrows dramatically, unsure where he could possibly be going with this. It was another one of his non-answers and they sent her head spinning at the best of times; she absolutely could not follow in her current state. 

“I am not sure it is possible for you to affect the Fade directly, given you are not a mage, but perhaps the magic of the anchor might allow you to shape your experiences regardless,” he continued. “I doubt you will be a particularly pliant pupil _now_ , given your… state,” Solas said, his lips quirking into something like an indulgent smile, “But I may be able to affect your dreams if we enter the Fade in close proximity to one another.”

“I suppose that’s one way to get a girl into bed,” Hara replied in jest. The indulgent smile on his face widened, shifting into something… decidedly different. 

“Just one, _lethallan_ ,” Solas replied, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Now, tell me what you’d like from your quarters to make your stay more comfortable and I shall retrieve them for you.”

Hara looked down at her travelworn clothes with a crinkled nose. She still had on the thin tunic she’d changed into after they returned to the Gull and Lantern; it was filthy from their journey back to Haven. She had no idea what to ask him to get for her, so she just requested “a shirt so large it does not touch me” and her pillow. 

* * *

Solas made to gather the few items she’d requested from her cabin, pulling his door closed behind him before he could convince himself of what a terrible idea this was. Dorian had apparently emerged from the tavern now, but he’d brought his drink with him; he was leaning against the door of a vacant building next to Adan’s apothecary, watching him with interest as he swirled a glass of something red in his hand.

Solas wondered if the mage had seen Hara enter his quarters but did not stop to ask. It was hardly a conversation he wanted to have.

He had serious misgivings about allowing her to spend the night in his quarters, especially given their intimacy in Redcliffe. It was impulsive and ill-advised, not unlike agreeing to allow her to stay with him. He had not meant to kiss her, but it was all he could think to do as she accused him of reviling her as he reviled the Dalish. It was so far from the truth that he could not force his brain to come up with something suitable in response and before he knew it, he’d crushed his mouth against hers.

He had regretted it as soon as he’d done it. At first, he thought he had repulsed or terrified her when she froze so suddenly underneath him. His heart had leapt when she kissed him of her own accord, the enthusiasm of her response almost dizzying. Solas had had many lovers in his long life, but none of them fit quite as well against his mouth—or underneath his hands—as she had.

He felt the tips of his ears color as he remembered the breathiness of her voice— _Fuck_ , she’d whispered, her voice thick with need, and he had been lost. He was powerless to stop himself and, if it were not for the sudden depth of her feelings—the pain in her eyes as she relived something, reflected on some _mistake_ she perceived she’d committed— he was sure he would have had her right there, up against the rough wall of the cabin he’d pinned her against.

He was far too old for this.

Solas searched her cabin quickly, snatching the pillow from her straw mattress and reaching blindly into her dresser. He was uncomfortable looking through her things and pulled out something shapeless and blue, figuring it would do; most everything there was likely to be enormous on her small frame, anyway.

The Tevinter gave him a curious look when he returned suddenly with an armful of items of questionable origin, but he did not comment. When Solas opened the door to his cabin, he was alarmed to discover a fire blazing brightly in the fireplace—raging, practically, and he wondered how she managed to get it to burn so hot without the aid of magic—before the acrid smell of smoke tinged with drying oil reached his nose.

Hara was calmly watching a painting burn in his fireplace, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be doing. In his alarm, he rushed to deposit her things on his desk before quickly crossing the room to stand beside her, words of admonishment already on his lips. He reached up to shake her by the shoulders in chastisement but stopped when he discovered what she’d used for kindling.

Solas could not fight back a hearty peal of laughter as he realized she had torched the painting of the dastardly-looking man she’d been disturbed by the first time she’d visited his quarters.

Perhaps she would be fine after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lethallan - friend


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back to our (sort of) regularly scheduled programming (?)
> 
> xx camp

Hara felt his cruel eyes on her as soon as Solas closed the door behind him. The man in the painting was… _watching_ her, his beady eyes following her around the room in a predatory fashion. His bony hands were steepled together and Hara knew he was hatching some nefarious plot, his lips pressed into a thin, pitiless line. The more she looked at him, the more she thought the man resembled Alexius. The more she thought about the magister, the more scared and angry she became, and the more scared and angry she became, the harder it was to breathe.

She heard the red lyrium begin to whisper to her again— _kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself_ —and she ripped the canvas off the wall and tossed it into the fireplace with alarming haste. Hara searched about his quarters with urgency, looking for something, anything with which to light the hearth, before she realized.

Solas did not need kindling—he had magic. 

The magister’s beady eyes glowered mercilessly at her from the grate and the fear inside her grew into something wild, something feral. She tried to breathe but found she could not force herself to exhale—she was terrified she might see a red mist of lyrium leave her lungs, as it had Fiona’s in that tainted future. The anchor on her hand sprung painfully to life and Hara gritted her teeth against the agony—her hand was burning, burning so hot she could not stand it. In a moment of madness, she stuck her hand inside the hearth; she wrapped it around the edge of the painting and willed it to burn. She only breathed again once the painting caught fire in a burst of sickly, green magic.

 _Safe,_ Hara thought, as she pulled her hand from the grate, refusing to think about what the magic on her palm had just accomplished. It had not reacted like this in weeks and weeks—unless she counted its response in Redcliffe, as the Elder One’s demon army bore down on them in Alexius’ twisted un-reality—and never like _this_ before. The anchor quieted, as though it had never reacted at all, and Hara would have questioned her sanity if it weren’t for the fire blazing brightly in front of her and the deep ache in her marked palm. 

She took deep, steadying breaths and watched the embers begin to consume the face of the horrible man she’d pulled off Solas’ wall. The paint began to curl as the canvas burned and it was oddly mesmerizing; she felt her fear recede as his visage began to disappear, the pungent fumes from the hearth causing a decidedly sobering effect. She doubted breathing in fumes of smoldering paint was an exercise in good judgment, but she hadn’t thought it through before igniting the dastardly man.

Hara hadn’t thought anything through, clearly, or she wouldn’t be standing in Solas’ cabin at all right now, much less watching a canvas blaze brightly in his hearth.

She heard the door open behind her and knew Solas had returned, but she could not tear her eyes away from the burning man; she felt compelled to watch the flames take him, did not want to turn her back on him while he was still in possession of those cruel, beady eyes. Hara heard Solas swear an oath underneath his breath as he crossed the room to her. Though she steadfastly refused to look at him, she could track his movements out of the corner of her eye, could see him lift his hands, as though he intended to grab her by the shoulders to shake some sense into her. He froze and did something altogether different instead.

Solas began laughing harder and louder than she’d ever heard him laugh before, and the noise was delightful—deep, rich, intoxicating, and so diametrically opposed to the atmosphere of fear and anger that hung thickly around her. She tore her eyes away from the flames and regarded him in surprise. It was hardly the reaction she’d been expecting in light of her impromptu arson. Solas bit back his laughter with effort, though his shoulders were still shaking with silent chuckles and his mouth was split into a wide grin, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he observed the canvas burning in his hearth with a hand on his chin.

Solas turned his gaze on her and looked at her with such fondness it turned her stomach, and any good humor she had left burned away with the painting in his hearth. _Vhenan,_ Hara remembered, and the memory of his death, his _mistake_ , clenched icily around her heart. She had set Alexius’ doppelgänger aflame but wound up back in Redcliffe regardless. 

Hara searched for something, anything, to say as he smiled fondly down at her, but her head was so hazy from the fear, the anger, the terror of that false future wrenched tightly around her throat. She pushed past him and out into the cold night air, not bothering to retrieve her muddy boots from beside his door, the cold snow underneath her bare feet shocking her into complete sobriety. She ignored Solas’ alarmed questions as she stumbled out into the road; she needed to get away from him, and she couldn’t focus on the words he was saying anyhow. 

She caught sight of Dorian, leaning against a cabin next to the apothecary, a glass of something red swirling in his hand; he looked at her with an astonished expression and his lips parted, as though he had a million questions to which he needed answers right away. Hara briefly thought to make a beeline for him— _who else would understand her sudden panic better than he?_ —but then remembered she’d have to explain why she was fleeing from Solas’ cabin, sans-footwear, as the elf in question called after her.

Hara raced down the path to her own cabin instead, barefoot and trembling, her breathing shallow until she reached the door to her quarters and stumbled inside. Her back slid down the door and she brought her knees to her chest, taking in great, gasping gulps of air. To her dismay, she heard a gentle knock on her door, the sensation reverberating against her spine through the wooden surface. Hara tried to get her mouth to work—to tell whomever had followed her home to _go away_ , but she couldn’t manage to get the words out. After several moments the knock came again, louder and more insistent this time, and she wrestled a response out of her throat.

“Unless you’re here to let me hit you with something, kindly fuck off,” Hara shouted in reply, her voice loud, thin, and oddly strangled in her effort to control her breathing.

“I do wish you’d stop telling me to do that,” came a distinctly unamused response from the other side of the door. _Shit. The commander._ The list of people Hara would rather not see had grown exponentially in the last week, but he was still rather high up. _Where had he even come from?_

“Apologies, Commander,” Hara shouted again— _why couldn’t she modulate her voice?_ —“I am not myself this evening.”

“I could see that,” Cullen replied, though his tone had shifted into something gentler. “It seems your, ah—rather colorful manner of speech has not suffered—but you looked so alarmed when you came in here that… Well, I would be remiss if I did not check on you, Herald.” 

“Consider me checked!” Hara replied, her response still a bit too loud and practically slathered in false cheer. 

There was a long silence and Hara wondered if the commander had been sated by her reply, if he’d wandered off to do whatever it was he did when he was not shouting at her about the merits of Templars or training their greenhorn forces. She counted fifteen heartbeats between her response and what came next.

“I would prefer to look at you with my own eyes, if you do not mind,” Cullen finally said, and his tone was hesitant, as though he hadn’t convinced himself he actually wanted to see her.

“Any chance you’ll just go away if I ignore you?” Hara asked, and she was frustrated at the smallness of her voice. 

“I have held against more than one siege in my time, Herald,” Cullen replied, his voice a bit teasing. His jocularity put her somewhat at ease, began to quell some of the panic that had fisted itself around her throat. She felt the urge to scream dissipate as her breathing slowed. A long moment passed.

“Herald?” The commander questioned again, and she knew then he would not leave until she spoke to him directly.

Hara pulled herself to her feet and opened the door to her cabin a few inches, peering out at the commander from the crack between the frame. His hair was oddly tousled and strands of it curled boyishly around his forehead in a way she had never seen before. He always looked so… coiffed and yet here he was, decidedly disheveled, his golden eyes sleepy despite the concerned look affixed to his face. Hara thought he looked a bit like a fluffy golden dog she had once seen a noblewoman walking near the Chantry in Wycome. She doubted he’d appreciate the comparison and elected to keep it to herself.

“See?” Hara questioned shortly as she locked eyes with the commander, “I am in tact.”

Cullen said nothing and frowned in response. He seemed to be searching for something in the circles underneath her eyes, the furrow that had deepened between her brows, the pallor of her skin. She doubted she looked appealing in any sense of the word, but he didn’t have to look so damn… disappointed by her visage.

“I read your report,” the commander finally offered, and Hara decided this proclivity for answering questions she had not asked in lieu of responding to the ones she had was the fault of masculinity rather than magic. Cullen was as far from magical as it were possible to be.

“Then I’m sorry to disappoint you, Commander,” Hara said bitterly, widening the gap between the door and its frame as she poked her head out to glower up at him.

“No, I, ah—” Cullen stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he chewed at the corner of his lip. He shifted his gaze down and away from her, suddenly finding his polished boots rather interesting. “My… experiences with mages have made me… Well, that is to say, perhaps I…”

Her perception of the commander shifted suddenly as she watched him wrestle back a look of vulnerability, struggling to keep his face passive. It seemed his hesitancy to ally with the mages was the same as hers with regard to the Templars.

“You don’t have to explain yourself… Cullen,” Hara said, so overcome with sudden empathy for the man that she spoke his name for the first time. “I find past behavior to be the best predictor of future behavior. I can’t begrudge you your suspicion any more than I can overcome my own.” She had the odd urge to extend her hand in a truce but clenched her hands by her sides instead, her left hand still tingling unpleasantly, like a limb that had fallen asleep (after catching fire).

He beat her to it, offering his palm between the door and its frame. Hara stared at it for a long moment before reaching out to shake it with her right hand.

“I suppose we’ll talk about this more in the morning,” Cullen offered after releasing her hand. “I am… pleased you are fine,” he finished lamely, rubbing the back of his neck again.

Hara nodded her head in nonverbal response and made to close the door. She had almost gotten it shut when she heard her name—her given name—over the fading crunch of the commander’s boots in the snow. 

“ _Harellan_ ,” a voice whispered into the thin crack between the door and its frame. Solas. Again.

She let the door close resolutely and resolved herself to ignore him, the phrase _We don’t want any_ springing to mind, her back sliding down against the hard plane of the door. Hara had heard the phrase countless times as she’d followed her grandfather around Wycome, attempting to sell his beautifully woven cloth to humans far above their station.

It wasn’t that she didn’t _want_ to see him. She… couldn’t. It seemed she was incapable of enduring his presence sober, and the effects of Sera’s herb had dissipated in their entirety at this point. 

Hara hardly expected him to climb in through the window. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :c 
> 
> xx camp

Hara sat with her back pressed against the door and her knees drawn close to her chest. She held her head in her hands, the remnants of her fishtail braid obscuring her face. She could hear Solas’ feet hit the floor as he climbed through her window, the fabric on his feet giving rise to soft padding sounds as he crossed the room to stand next to her.

Hara could sense him hovering over her, but she refused to lift her head to meet his gaze. She was so drained that the act of looking up at him—much less asking him what gave him the right to enter her quarters without permission in such an unorthodox manner—felt almost monumental.

“Will you not speak to me?” Solas prompted, finally breaking the tense silence that hung in the air.

“I didn’t exactly invite you in here, you know,” Hara replied flatly, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Your actions tonight have been… perplexing, to say the least,” he pressed.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” Hara murmured in denial, rubbing at her temples in an attempt to stave off a growing headache. Her head was hurting more and more frequently and the constant pain in her skull was growing tiresome. Dealing with the commander had been enough to bring it on, and she had no doubt it would grow into a monstrous migraine by the time Solas was through with her.

“You come to my quarters under the influence of Sera’s herb, refuse to leave when I suggest that you rest, use artwork as kindling for an irresponsible and ill-contained fire, flee upon discovery, and then steadfastly ignore my attempts to confirm your wellbeing,” Solas listed, his tone flat but not altogether unkind.

“Alright, I have some idea of what you mean,” Hara amended, finally lifting her head to meet his gaze. The strands of her long, strawberry blonde braid were sticking to her forehead and she blew them out of her face with an abrupt exhalation of air.

“You are still disturbed by what occurred in Redcliffe,” Solas said, his tone soft and his face serious, his eyes reflecting his concern. Hara wasn’t sure if he was talking exclusively about her impromptu journey into that horrible future, or if his definition of an “occurrence” included their ill-advised intimacy as well. She shifted her gaze elsewhere, suddenly finding the dirty floor of her cabin utterly fascinating.

“Aren’t you?” She asked after a long moment as she examined an oddly shaped pebble on the floor. It looked rather like Blackwall’s beard might if it abandoned the Warden’s face, turned to stone, and shrunk significantly in size. 

“Yes,” Solas replied after a time. “Your report was troubling,” He continued, lowering himself to the floor beside her. Hara could feel his eyes boring into her and her face grew warm underneath his intense gaze. “And I doubt you or Dorian gave a full account of the events that transpired.”

“I am nothing if not exceedingly honest and transparent,” Hara snapped, meeting his gaze with a glare of her own. The soft smile on his mouth threw her off balance and her gaze softened in response.

“Yes, of course,” Solas replied, his tone a bit lighter, “You are the very picture of transparency, as diaphanous as a spirit.”

“I’m glad we are of one mind about my principled and virtuous nature,” Hara responded sarcastically.

“In all seriousness,” Solas continued, “It could help to share this burden with another. You do not have to shoulder this knowledge alone.”

“I have Dorian,” Hara argued. “We are two peas in a burdensome pod, he and I.”

“Yes, and you’ve both spent precious little time in sobriety since we left Redcliffe,” Solas contended, “The pair of you have done rather more drinking than speaking, and you more than that besides. I suppose I should be minding him as well, but perhaps Sera’s aversion to magic will save him from her attempts at further intoxication.”

His gentle chastisement was frustrating but difficult to argue with. He did make an excellent point. Yes, she _could_ speak to Dorian about what had happened, but neither of them seemed keen to rehash what they’d been through together. Hara hardly thought it would be fair to ask him to relive the events when he was clearly so haunted by what his former mentor had wrought in that false, tainted future.

“And so you mean for me to tell you all about it, I suppose,” Hara responded after a time.

“If not me, perhaps Master Tethras,” Solas replied thoughtfully. “I know you are rather fond of him."

Hara scoffed. “And have whatever horrible thing I tell him immortalized in print forever, made exponentially worse by his penchant for dramatic artistic embellishment? No, thank you.” Hara still hadn’t quite forgiven him for describing her as _possessing heaving breasts_.

“Perhaps the Seeker, then,” Solas continued; it seemed her pessimism had not dissuaded him.

“I know the Seeker is typically a levelheaded woman, but…” Hara did not know how to articulate her hesitancy. She really had grown to trust and respect Cassandra, but something held her back from sharing more with her. 

“I doubt she’d have you bound and shackled again, if that’s your concern, but I do understand the hesitancy,” Solas extrapolated. “Perhaps Sera?”

“Was that a serious question?” Hara asked, a smirk lifting the corners of her mouth.

“No, not entirely,” Solas finished, a small smile on his face. “The Iron Bull?”

“I think he’d rather me hit him with something,” Hara replied, remembering his strange but thoughtful offer. “Or… hit _me_ with something, as it were.”

“Yes,” Solas responded, his tone distinctly unamused. “That is probably correct. I am loathe to recommend Madam Vivienne for anything—“

“So don’t,” Hara replied, crinkling her nose in displeasure.

“Very well,” Solas replied with a deep sigh. “Blackwall, then?”

“Do you intend to list every friend, acquaintance, soldier, and scout in Haven? Why not a merchant, while we’re at it? Perhaps you’d like me to cozy up to Seggrit?” Hara asked, growing exasperated with this line of questioning.

“I would not like you to ‘cozy up’ to _anyone_ , least of all _Seggrit_ ,” Solas snapped, a disgusted look on his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. It seemed Hara was giving him a headache. It was the least she could do in thanks for the ache in her own head he was steadily stoking into a full-blown migraine.

“Fine,” Hara snapped after a long moment of silence. 

“Fine?” Solas queried, raising one elegant auburn eyebrow, the look of irritation on his face fading into something like surprise.

“Fine,” Hara repeated. “What is it you want to know?”

“Tell me whatever it is you found so disturbing,” Solas began, his tone suddenly gentle. “I understand from your reports that in this future, the empress of Orlais was murdered and this Elder One raised a demon army. Disturbing possibilities, to be sure, but you rarely balk in the face of a challenge. You are quite… indomitable, ordinarily.”

“Not my idea of a pleasant future, to be sure,” Hara replied, her tone sharp. “But that wasn’t the worst of it, no. Not to me, anyway.”

Solas looked at her, a picture of patience and expectancy. Hara worked at her jaw and weighed the decision to share more. She would absolutely not discuss the strange intimacy between them. And the mistake he’d claimed to have committed? It was… Perplexing, maddeningly so, but she had no idea how he might respond to that. She focused on the potential loss of his power rather than the loss of his presence. If he did not respond favorably and left the Inquisition before she managed to close the Breach? Unthinkable. So, no, that would have to wait, perhaps indefinitely. She could start with something relatively academic; surely, that would be safe.

“The mark,” Hara began, lifting her left hand and gazing at it with intense displeasure. “It was… different.”

“In what way?” The intensity with which he asked the question surprised her. He seemed… panicked, almost, before he wrestled his expression back into its steadfastly (and infuriatingly) neutral expression. 

“It was… stronger there. The Breach had consumed the sky and spirits were ripped from the Fade in waves. The mark—its power increased tenfold,” Hara glowered at her hand. “And the pain along with it.”

Solas extended his hand, a wordless invitation to proffer her own for examination. It reminded her of being with him in the Hinterlands, back when all this began. She placed her hand in his and he inspected her palm carefully with a furrowed brow.

“Have you noticed any changes in the mark’s properties since your return?” Solas finally asked, gazing intensely at the lines on her palm as though he expected it to burst to life at any moment.

Hara weighed the decision to disclose her hand’s sudden propensity for lighting portraits on fire and decided it would be best to tell him. Perhaps he would have some advice for her—or, better yet, perhaps he would be able to alter the mark, to contain this strange new power it seemed to have thrust upon her.

“The fire I started in your cabin,” Hara said, glowering at her hand. “I lit it with this.”

Solas looked up from her palm with wide eyes, his lips slightly parted in surprise. “Pardon?”

“I torched your stupid painting with my stupid hand,” Hara simplified, not at all encouraged by the shocked expression on his face.

“That is… strange.” He responded, gazing at her palm with such intensity she wondered if he might set it on fire himself. “And troubling. And ought to be altogether impossible. I wondered how you’d managed to get the fire so hot... Magical fire tends to burn much more intensely than that which is started with kindling.”

“Strange and troubling seem vast understatements, _lethallin_ ,” Hara muttered wryly. “And it wasn’t just _this_ magic.”

“Go on,” Solas commanded, the furrow between his brows deepening.

“ _Your_ magic,” Hara supplied, “It was different, too. I have never seen so much… raw _power_ in my life.” She remembered how he’d looked as he strode to his death—furious, wild, and untamed, his magic equally so. The more Hara revisited the scene in her memories—both waking and dreaming—the more she thought he had been almost… Godlike. 

The color drained from Solas’ face. “ _My_ magic? You speak as though I were there with you.” Perhaps it was the relative darkness of her cabin, the only light visible being the moonlight streaming in from the window, but she thought he looked nervous. Perhaps he was.

“You were,” Hara said quietly, “You all were. Bull. Leliana. Fiona. Others, perhaps, too. It wasn’t _really_ you—not the _you_ in front of me right now, at any rate—but…” Hara felt her throat tighten and tears begin to pool behind her eyes as she remembered their deaths, their sacrifice. Leliana—her throat pierced, blood spilling messily on the tile underneath her as a demon ripped its claw through her windpipe. Bull—he made himself a wall between them, a blood-soaked, mortal barrier that fell in the end. And Solas—she remembered when she _felt_ his magic leave the world, extinguished as though he were nothing more than a candle in the wind.

“Harellan?” Solas murmured her name, placing a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, startled, and realized she’d been lost. Hara regarded his face; he looked so concerned, so distressed as considered her visage. She felt something hot and wet on her cheeks and realized she must’ve been crying as she stared blankly ahead, lost in the memories.

Hara cleared her throat and wiped her eyes quickly with the back of her hand. “We saw you die,” she finished, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. “You sacrificed yourselves so that we might return. I… _felt_ your magic disappear as the demon army overtook you.” It had been the second loneliest moment of her life. 

The crease between his brows deepened. “Felt?" 

“Yes. You were just… gone,” she replied, wrestling back another wave of sadness, terror, tears. “You all were.”

“I am here now,” Solas said in response, his tone serious. He squeezed the hand he had rested on her shoulder comfortingly. “And I will not allow this future to come to pass.”

“Yes, you are,” she confirmed, “And no, we shall not.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” Solas murmured after a long moment. He seemed to have disappeared inside himself and she wondered if she’d had the same lost, faraway look when she remembered their deaths. He looked so… world weary in the moonlight, his shoulders drooping underneath the weight of her admissions.

“I know I am the last person with any authority to tell you to rest,” Hara began softly, “But perhaps you should go to bed. You look exhausted, _hahren_.”

Solas seemed to come back to himself just then; he regarded the dark circles underneath her eyes and the ashen hue of her skin. “I believe that is sound advice for the both of us,” he replied, smiling slightly. He stood from the floor and offered her his hand. She took it and he pulled her swiftly to her feet.

Solas opened the door to her cabin and had one foot out the door when Hara had the sudden impulse to thank him… and to apologize. She hardly wanted to lose the friendship that seemed to have blossomed between them and was terrified she might have ruined it with these confessions—and her previous behavior.

“Solas?” Hara called after him as he made to close the door. He poked his head back inside her cabin and looked at her expectantly. “Thank you for listening. And… I’m sorry for what happened between us in Redcliffe. The real Redcliffe, that is.”

“Yes,” Solas replied after a long moment, opening the door and entering her quarters once more. He closed the door gently behind him, and the soft click it made as it shut seemed almost deafening in the quiet darkness of the room. “As am I. The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered. I should not have encouraged it.”

“Encouraged it?” Hara huffed in sudden irritation. “You _started_ it.”

“Yes— I—” Solas stopped, searching for words, his brow furrowed in concern as he captured his lower lip between his teeth. A flush spread across his cheeks and accentuated a soft smattering of freckles across his nose Hara hadn’t noticed before. It was the first time she had seen him truly flustered, and Hara felt her heart clench inside her chest at the endearing image he cut.

“But… I should take responsibility for continuing it,” Hara finally supplied in his silence. “I haven’t been… Thinking very clearly, all things considered.”

“I image not,” Solas replied. “I did not intend for it to happen. Truthfully, I—That is, _we_ … shouldn’t. It isn’t right,” he finally said, though there was an oddly pained quality to his voice, as though he hadn’t quite convinced himself he believed it.

She hadn’t expected to feel her heart breaking, but she did. Was this what he had meant in that false future? Was _she_ the mistake he wasn’t meant to make again? Hara finally managed to force herself to nod in agreement.

“Well…” Solas continued, breaking the awkward silence between them. “ _On era’vun,_ Herald.” The formality was unbearable.

“ _On era’vun, lethallin,_ ” Hara whispered in reply. She hoped that, at least, was still true.

The door clicked shut and Hara steeled herself for another sleepless night, this one tinged more heavily with sadness and regret than with fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lethallin - friend  
> hahren - elder  
> on era'vun - goodnight


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one involves a headcanon i've been nurturing for ages. 
> 
> xx camp

Hara woke the next morning with less energy than she’d had when she finally fell asleep the night before, if that were even possible. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sighed deeply. Her dreams had been, predictably, unpleasant. She felt Solas die six times in the approximate two hours of “rest” she’d gotten. She prayed to whatever deity might be listening that Josephine had brewed a truly massive pot of tea before their meeting in the war room this morning.

She forced herself from the bed—her sleep hadn’t been improved by her lack of pillow, which she assumed must still be in Solas’ cabin—and splashed cold water on her face. Hara gathered her long hair into a messy braid and secured it with a leather tie before pulling on a clean, red tunic—another new addition in her wardrobe, it seemed—and pair of tan breeches.

She looked longingly at Solas’ foot wraps and weighed the physical comfort they would bring with the emotional distress they might cause her as she glanced at them throughout the day. She settled for the boots, quickly cleaned her teeth, and forced herself out the door to the cabin before she could think too hard about what she was doing. 

Hara met Leliana on the short path up to the Chantry and gave her what she hoped was a friendly wave. The spymaster regarded her seriously, though Hara couldn’t determine what emotion might be underneath the dire mask the Nightingale wore. They walked silently with one another into the Chantry and, despite the early hour, they could already hear someone talking loudly inside the war room. Leliana held the door open for Hara and they entered with little fanfare.

“It is _not_ a matter of debate,” Cullen all-but-shouted at a placid-faced Josephine. “There _will_ be abominations among the mages and we _must_ be prepared.” Hara should’ve guessed the noise was coming from him. 

“If we rescind the offer of an alliance, it makes the Inquisition look _incompetent_ at best, tyrannical at worst,” Josephine stressed, the serene look gone and replaced with one of frustration. The the tone of her voice was high and impatient, and Hara wondered how long they’d been at this. 

Cassandra was standing silently across the table from them and quirked an eyebrow in Hara’s direction. What that gesture was supposed to convey, Hara had no idea. Hopefully it was not resounding disapproval, as with the commander. Perhaps it was some sort of amusement at seeing the ambassador finally lose her cool. 

“What were you thinking, turning the mages loose with no oversight?” Cullen turned to face Hara, glowering at her. It seemed that any good will they developed the night before was destined to burn away with the dawn. “The Veil is torn open!” 

“They are _people_ , not _problems_ , Commander,” Hara said, her voice dangerously low. Mercifully, she spotted a steaming pot of tea on the edge of the war table; it seemed Josephine had read her mind. Hara poured herself a rather enormous cup as she worked out what else she might say to him. _Nothing good, most likely_ , she thought as she took a tentative sip of her tea, nodding her nonverbal thanks to the ambassador next to her. A surprisingly diplomatic response sprung to mind and she silently thanked Josephine’s ever-diplomatic presence for potentially inspiring her. 

“We needed the mages to have any hope of closing the Breach. Now we have them. We will deal with any potential issues that arise on a case-by-case basis,” Hara said, resolve in her voice.

“And how many lives will be lost if they fail? They could do as much damage as the demons themselves!” Cullen asked loudly, throwing his hands up in exasperation. 

“How many lives do you suppose have been lost at the Templar’s hands, hm? Do you suppose their hands are clean? What of the blood of the mages locked away in Circle towers? What of those who fail their Harrowings? What of the children ripped away from their parents? How do you measure the gravity of _their_ failures, Commander?” Hara spat in response, the teacup shaking in her hand as she struggled to keep her tone impassive. She failed, of course. Spectacularly. She was too fucking tired for this.

“With the Veil broken, the threat of possession…” Cullen trailed off, and his eyes seemed wild with fear at the possibility. It was not a response to her criticism in the slightest. _Men_ , she thought bitterly _._

“None of us were there, Commander,” Cassandra finally spoke, and it seemed she was destined to be the enduring voice of reason in these conversations. “While I may not completely agree with the Herald’s decision, I support it. The sole point of her mission was to gain the mages’ aid, and that was accomplished.”

“The voice of pragmatism speaks!” Cried a posh yet masculine voice. _Dorian? When had he come in?_ Hara saw Leliana quietly shutting the door to the war room as Dorian ushered himself in theatrically, his arms spread wide in melodramatic greeting. “And here I was just starting to enjoy the circular arguments.”

Hara gave him a grateful look and took in his appearance quickly. He wore the ostentatious leather armor she’d seen him wear the first time they’d met, and he looked considerably better than she felt. The sight gratified her and her spirits lifted somewhat. She gave him a small smile, and he returned it with a quirk of his mustache and a crinkle of his eyes.

“Closing the Breach is all that matters,” Cassandra responded in turn. 

“Yes,” Hara responded in agreement, taking in all of their faces around the table. “The longer the Breach is open, the more damage it does, on this side and beyond the Veil. We should head there as soon as possible.”

“Agreed,” Josephine responded, smiling at her from across the table. The commander looked sufficiently cowed.

Leliana turned to address her directly, the first she’d spoken during the meeting thus far. “We should look into the things you saw in this ‘dark future.’ The assassination of Empress Celene? A demon army?”

“Just the thing a Tevinter cult might do,” Dorian responded, his tone flat and lacking its usual flair. “I am sure these ‘Venatori’ Alexius got mixed up with would love such an outcome. Orlais falls, the Imperium rises, chaos for everyone!” The flair was back. Perhaps he was recovering rather well after all.

“One battle at a time,” Cullen said in reply, his brow still furrowed with impatience. “It’s going to take time to organize our troops and the mage recruits.”

“How quickly can you be ready, Commander?” Hara asked, schooling her face into something like the academic passivity she saw on Solas’ visage so often. 

Cullen thought for a long moment, his hand at his chin and the lines on his forehead deepening in concentration as he estimated how quickly he could possibly organize their troops _and_ the influx of (what he seemed to assume would be) demon-worshipping abominations Hara had dropped in his lap.

“Three days,” Cullen finally replied.

“Splendid!” cried Dorian. “We,” he gave Hara a pointed look, “Have much to discuss between now and then.”

“So you’re staying?” Hara asked, trying to keep a leash on her hopefulness lest he mean to disappear once the Breach had been sealed.

“Time-traveling companions are _so_ very hard to find,” Dorian replied in a bored tone, but Hara could see the twinkling in his eyes, his mustache quirking upward in a teasing smile. “You don’t expect me to start from scratch, do you? The notion is absolutely barbaric!”

Hara’s heart leapt with joy and she grinned, her first real, genuine smile since Redcliffe. She resisted the urge to fling her arms around his neck in gratitude and bowed her head in thanks instead. “I’d prefer it if we kept the time travel to a minimum, if you don’t mind,” Hara said in response, “But if it _must_ be done, there’s no one I’d rather do it with." 

“Cullen and I will strategize about how best to close the Breach. If you would, Herald, please let Madame Vivienne and Solas know to meet us in the war room to discuss this. We cannot do this without their magical expertise,” Cassandra said. “Or _yours,_ I suppose,” she added, turning her gaze on Dorian. She did not look thrilled about his ongoing presence but seemed to weigh Hara’s good opinion of him against her own suspicion. Apparently, Hara’s good opinion won out.

“Oh, it is surely no trouble for me to send a messenger!” cried Josephine, ever the picture of thoughtfulness.

“It’s no trouble, Josephine,” Hara replied before she considered the implications of her desire to be helpful. “I’ll see to it.”

“Well… if you insist,” the ambassador responded after a moment of hesitation.

When the practicalities of her offer set in, Hara wanted to kick herself. She was less than thrilled to interact with either of them—Madame Vivienne grated on her nerves and Solas… well, she was hardly keen to see him after the polite and distant formality he’d returned them to when he bade her goodnight.

She left the war room with promises to meet Dorian that evening in the tavern—for dinner and conversation rather than an exercise in mutual inebriation. This time, at any rate.

* * *

She found Vivienne near the entrance to the Chantry. She was pouring over a complex magical tome by candlelight, an elegant hand poised at her temple as she synthesized the knowledge within. Hara gently cleared her throat to draw the mage’s attention. It took her less than 30 seconds to infuriate Madame de Fer.

 _Yes,_ she’d said in response to Vivienne’s question about whether she truly intended to treat the rebel mages as allies. _I believe the mages deserve their freedom_. The Orlesian regarded her with thinly veiled contempt as she suggested that surely, the “Herald of Andraste” would agree to work towards reinstating the Circles once the rebels had outlived their usefulness.

 _No,_ Hara had responded with impatience, _I do not believe the Circles need to be reinstated; not unless they become something so completely juxtaposed to their original nature that they might as well be termed Triangles or Squares instead_. The haughty Orlesian had given her a look that would curdle milk before she stalked off to the war room to meet with the Seeker and Commander to plan their assault on the Breach. 

She would find Solas inside the apothecary with Master Adan, much to her surprise. Hara wandered slowly towards his cabin, putting off the encounter for as long as possible before she thought the advisors might find his dalliance suspicious or irritating. Hara knocked on his door hesitantly and, when he didn’t answer, furrowed her brow in concern. Surely he’d returned to his quarters after he’d left her last night? She was beginning to worry when she heard Adan’s gruff voice calling to her from across the way. 

“Oi! Herald!” Adan shouted from the window of the apothecary, and she whirled around to face him so quickly that her thick braid smacked her in the face. _Ouch_. “He’s in here, if you’re looking for him!”

Hara raised her eyebrows in surprise. _Solas? With Adan? To what end?_ She frowned and walked tentatively towards the apothecary, poking her head inside the door to see what they could be up to in the small building together.

“Come in! We’re _cooking things_ ,” Adan said mischievously as his bearded face split into a wide grin, wiping some sweat from his brow with the back of his hairy hand.

Solas had his back to the doorway and Hara observed him hovering over a sizable iron cauldron with a ladle held almost lazily in one hand, the other rubbing thoughtfully along his angular jaw and chin. His omnipresent sweater was gone; he was clothed in a sleeveless white undershirt, one of Adan’s leather aprons tied around his trim waist. As he bent over the mixture he was tending, his posture accentuated the well-developed muscles of his back and arms. Hara eyed his sinewy freckled forearms and felt a deep flush creep across her face and down her neck and chest. _Gods, he was_ … handsome was an understatement. She tore her gaze away from him and regarded Adan with a trained look of interest instead.

“I can see that,” Hara said, finally managing to get her mouth to work properly. “Smells dreadful. What is it?”

“It’s several things, actually,” Adan responded, waving at two more cauldrons bubbling on the other side of the room. “Your apostate friend here has a unique method of distilling lyrium with embruim and rashvine to increase its mana restoring properties as well as the duration of the potion’s effects. Handy, eh?”

“Handy indeed,” Hara replied, surprise in her voice and on her face. Solas still had not turned to face her. “What else are you concocting in here? And how much of it explodes on impact?”

Adan grinned. “Seems my reputation proceeds me,” he said, gesturing to a smaller cauldron bubbling with a red, sticky substance. “Been working up something I like to call Antivan Fire as well. Chuck it at an enemy and it’ll catch ‘em in a blaze.”

“Amazing,” Hara replied in awe, “Why does it look so…” She searched for words. _Sticky_ was hardly a scientific description, but she couldn’t seem to find a suitable alternative.

“Viscid?” Solas offered, the first word he’d spoken to her since she entered the apothecary. He did not look up from the cauldron he was attending and had begun filling a small vial with whatever he was brewing within.

“Because it’s _sticky fire_ , Herald,” Adan clarified, grinning wickedly. Not for the first time, Hara was thankful they’d recruited Adan for their purposes; it was terrifying to imagine him in the employ of some nefarious faction hellbent on conquering the South. “Follows you around the battlefield like an angry mabari. Harder to shake than a moneylender after yer debts, it is." 

“Have I ever told you how glad I am you work _for_ the Inquisition and not _against_ it?” Hara asked, wonderment coloring her tone and shifting her face into something almost childlike. “You are _amazing_ , Adan. Amazing!”

The potion master grinned underneath her praise and Hara thought she saw a flush color his cheeks, though it was difficult to tell underneath his thick beard and might have been due to the almost sweltering heat in the apothecary instead. Hara wiped a thin sheen of sweat from her own brow and resolved herself to ask Harritt if he would be able to develop fire resistant armor so she might chuck grenades of Antivan Fire at the many things that were determined to kill her.

“Well, I’ll be off then,” Hara said, smiling broadly at Master Adan. “Think I’ll see if Harritt can work me up something fire resistant. I’ve _got_ to try these grenades.” She had completely forgotten her original purpose in her excitement about the concoctions they were brewing.

“That’s wise,” Adan said, laughter in his voice. “Another time, Herald.”

“Har…eld,” Solas called awkwardly after her as she made to leave the apothecary. _Had he started to say her name?_ Hara frowned and shook her head. _Surely not._ “I... believe I have developed something you may find useful.”

“It all seems useful, Solas,” Hara responded, struggling to keep her voice detached and impassive. “Thank you for lending your talents to the apothecary. I’m sure the lyrium you’ve refined will serve our mages well.”

“Yes, it is all likely to be beneficial,” he said in agreement, his skin flushed in the dim atmosphere of Adan’s cabin. _Must’ve been the heat from the cauldron he’d been hovering over_. “But this is for your personal use.”

He crossed the room to her and pressed a small vial into her palm; her heart leapt stupidly at the contact of their skin. _Stop it_ , she chastised herself. “This potion induces dreamless sleep. It should temporarily weaken your connection to the Fade, and the resulting effect should be that you are not… troubled by spirits or demons.” He finished with a rather detached, academic tone, but Hara was sure there was more emotion underneath his words. _Compassion._  

“You just… invented it?” Hara said, looking at the vial of blue liquid dubiously. As grateful as she was for his thoughtfulness, surely he did not expect her to pour some unknown and untested substance down her gullet. She was rather desperate for sleep, but… even she had to admit this was a bit much to take on faith.

“Well, no. Not exactly,” Solas replied, wiping the sweat from his brow with a gloriously freckled forearm. Hara forced herself to concentrate on his face instead, but it did nothing to reign in the heavy heartbeats in her chest. “I have found a number of alchemical recipes in my journeys through the Fade, many tinctures and potions lost to time. This is one such recipe.”

“Ma serannas, Solas,” she murmured, regarding the potion in her hand. 

“‘Ma neral, Hara,” he responded, his voice low, and her heart leapt as she heard him say some semblance of her name. Even the bastardized form was exponentially better than ‘Herald’. A memory of him wrapping her feet in beautiful, enchanted cloth bubbled forth in her mind—it felt so very long ago and her heart constricted painfully. “I hope it will help you regain some strength. Attempting to seal the Breach in a state of exhaustion is likely to be an exercise in futility.”

Her heart felt strangely empty as she considered his words. _Ah, yes_ , she thought, _a means to an end_. “Speaking of the Breach,” Hara began, suddenly remembering to deliver the message she was meant to give him. “Cassandra and the Commander have requested your presence in the Chantry. They—along with Madame Vivienne and Dorian—are discussing how best to plan our assault on the Breach.”

“I see,” Solas replied, wiping his hands on Adan’s leather apron before untying it and searching about for something. He retrieved his sweater from its resting place, draped over the back of a chair, and pulled it swiftly over his head. “I shall not keep them waiting.” He held the door open for her and the exited the apothecary together, walking in silence along the path to the Chantry until their paths diverged near Haven’s gates.

Hara mourned the disappearance of his sleeveless undershirt all the way to Harritt’s forge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> raise your hand if you think Adan is a woefully under-appreciated minor character!
> 
> ma serannas - thank you  
> 'ma neral - my pleasure


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :O 
> 
> xx camp

Three days had come and gone at a truly alarming rate, time moving at a breakneck pace as it was wont to do whenever an event one was dreading loomed on the horizon. 

Three days of blessedly restful, potion-induced sleep; three days of preparations with the rebel mages and the Inquisition’s forces; three days of working alongside Harritt to outfit their new companions; and three days of thoughtful conversation with Dorian about the nature of the future they had witnessed—and the strange intensity of the magic they’d encountered there. Dorian had little more to offer her on its nature than Solas had—and Solas hadn’t offered her much, if anything, distracted as he had been by her admission. 

Hara was hesitant to reveal the mark’s recent foray into incendiarism but ultimately offered up the information on the off-chance he might know some strategy for dealing with it. Dorian found her hand’s pyromanic possibilities as perplexing as she did, though it hadn’t started any more fires since that night in Solas’ cabin. She’d even tried to replicate the action a few times at Dorian’s insistence, but it was to no avail. Hara hoped she had imagined it, but…how else would she have set the portrait in his hearth aflame? Perhaps it was a fluke, a one-time occurrence. If she were the praying type, Hara would have said a prayer, and for more than one reason. 

She was set to close the Breach in the morning and despite the endless preparations they had made, she was afraid things would go, as Sera might say “tits up.”

Hara left the Chantry on the third night after their final round of preparations with an uneasy feeling and a dour look on her face; she intended to return to her quarters to review every possible eventuality—and the many ways in which she might fail and/or irrevocably fuck something up—for (probably) the seventeenth time. She hurried past Varric’s tent on the way to her quarters, but the dwarf poked his head out of the canvas flap at the most inopportune time. He stopped her in her tracks with a wordless shout of acknowledgement and rushed out after her. 

“Where’re you scurrying off to? Did you steal someone’s knickers, Scarecrow? You look more nervous than a whore sweating through Chantry services,” Varric teased, though he managed a look of genuine concern at the same time. The juxtaposition was baffling but uniquely suited to him. 

“I am far too busy with Breach preparations to steal anyone’s knickers, Varric,” Hara started, swallowing back a wave of panic as her heart thudded madly against her ribcage. Something about being cornered by the dwarf in such a state of anxiety shot her nerves completely. “Nothing ties up your social calendar like being crushed underneath the weight of the possibility of horrible failure and/or death!” By the time she finished, the volume of her voice had risen to a shout, and she ended the declaration with something that was supposed to be a cheerful noise. The sound that came out was rather more akin to someone strangling a cat.

“That’s it, you’re coming with me,” Varric said in non-response, such finality in his tone that Hara did not even think to argue with him. He looped his arm through hers and practically dragged her to the tavern, shoving her through the doors and tugging her to the back of the room to a table occupied by the Iron Bull and Blackwall with almost alarming speed.

Before she knew what was happening, Varric cajoled them all into a hand of Wicked Grace. The dwarf claimed it would ease her anxieties, waxing poetic about the benefits of losing money as a tonic for one’s health.

They were now three rounds in and so far, she’d lost ten silvers and invented eleven new ways she might fail catastrophically on the morrow. That is to say, she was not, by definition, relaxed.

“Dealer wins again!” Varric announced smugly to the table as he revealed three Serpents to Hara’s pair of Daggers, Bull’s set of Angels, and Blackwall’s truly pathetic and singular Song. The card reflected, perhaps fittingly, Mercy. The Warden could certainly use some. The poor bastard had lost fifteen silvers in that hand alone, and Hara hated to think how much money he’d be out by night’s end. Varric scooped the winnings towards himself with a flourish, waggling his eyebrows at Blackwall all the while.

“Another round?” Bull asked as Varric handed him the deck and began to stack his coins. It was the Qunari’s turn to shuffle and deal. Hara had insisted on the card rotation as a deterrent to Varric’s relentless cheating; the measure hadn’t improved her game in the slightest. She was mesmerized as she watched the Qunari shuffle the cards, his hands riffling them deftly to prevent the players from catching a glimpse at the faces. It was all rather impressive, given his fingers were the size of sausages.

“Was another round even in question? Scarecrow here doesn’t look any more relaxed than when she came in,” Varric finally said in reply once he’d stacked his coins to his satisfaction, observing her scrunched forehead with a look of distaste.

“I did not _come_ in, I was _dragged_ in,” Hara responded without much steam. She sighed and laid her head on the dirty tavern table, feeling the soft reverberations of the shuffling cards against her cheek. “I am defeated, Varric,” she said, gazing up at him dejectedly from underneath her thick lashes. “Release me, O Great and Witty Storyteller, and spare me and my meager pocketbook more shame. Losing money is no tonic for my nerves.”

“You should consider a real tonic, Boss,” Bull interjected as he skillfully cut the deck. “You can’t show nerves like this tomorrow. A drink or two might do you some good. You need to loosen up,” he recommended, and set aside the cards to wave his mug of ale tantalizingly in front of her face. She was sure it was his tenth round and he did not seem drunk in the slightest.

“The last thing I need is to be hungover _and_ terrified when I try to seal the stupid Breach,” she muttered, giving his mug a longing look. She hadn’t forgotten Solas’ gentle chastisement about her near-constant intoxication upon their return from Redcliffe and was not keen on a repeat lecture. “You’re right, though. I’d hate for my nerves to be the reason someone wavers and we fail. Especially if that someone is me.”

“Come now, Herald,” Blackwall argued, a tone of encouragement permeating his voice as he arranged his meager purse along the table’s edge. Hara hoped he would quit while he was behind, but somehow doubted he would. “I have full confidence that you will succeed. I’m certain you could shake this world to its foundations if you willed it.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Ser Warden,” Hara said in response, shifting her gaze from Bull’s tankard to the spectacularly bearded man across the table. She did, really. It was just hard to believe it.

“Maybe you just need a good night’s sleep,” Varric pondered as he watched Bull begin to deal the cards, apparently monitoring the action for duplicity. “You sleeping much these days?” Varric gave her a pointed look and her face colored slightly as memories of her nightmares in the Hinterlands sprung to mind. At least she’d never punched _him_ in the throes of one. She couldn’t say as much for Solas.

“Believe it or not, yes,” Hara replied, willing the flush in her skin to dissipate as she thought about the small vial of blue potion Solas had given her three days prior. It had been an absolute godsend. She hadn’t slept this well in… well, ever, probably. “Solas and Adan concocted a tonic that induces dreamless sleep. I’ve been taking it the past few nights and it seems to be working.”

Just then, someone interjected a rather rude noise into their conversation.

“Pbbbtbththththh!” Sera. _Who else?_ It seemed the archer had taken up residence at the table behind theirs without her realizing. “I’m surprised Old Elvhen Glory needs a potion to put a lady to sleep. Just his _talking_ sets me snoring.”

Hara felt the color return to her face as her imagination supplied an image of Solas lying next to her in the darkness of her cabin, murmuring something in her ear. Stories of the Fade, perhaps, or tales of ruins he had seen in his wanderings—or something more intimate still. She suddenly felt very hot and hoped none of them noticed the uncomfortable flush that had taken up residence underneath her skin.

Sera did, of course, taking in the blush spreading across her cheeks with wide eyes and a crinkled nose—shock and disapproval, clear as day, and Hara felt the pinkness of her cheeks bloom into something more intense—fuchsia, likely, with all her fucking luck. Even Cassandra would have to be impressed with the vermilion hue of her skin. 

“Yeugh!” Sera shouted and reached blindly about for something. She picked up a scrap of bread left uneaten on her table and chucked it at Hara’s head. “You _fancy_ him!” She ducked just in time and the crust smacked uselessly against the wall behind her. 

“I—“ Hara started, cheeks flaming red. She searched desperately for words of denial, placation, anything, and was found wanting. She was Thedas’ worst liar, even less suited to duplicity than a baby nug. It was a miracle someone hadn’t noticed her attraction before, hadn’t ferreted it out of her over drinks or teasing conversation. Hara was useless when it came to protecting secrets about anything but her past. Then again, she’d quite hated him at the start of all this. What was more, her own realization of her feelings had come less than 72 hours ago, and only in the face of his resolve to put more distance between them. His words came rushing to the forefront of her mind— _impulsive, ill-considered, it isn’t right._ It picked open a scab on a wound she hadn’t ever expected to have.

The men at her table were all watching the interaction between the two elven women with undisguised interest. Varric’s mouth had quirked into his signature shit-eating grin and his fingers twitched, and Hara was immediately grateful there were no quills within arm’s reach. Blackwall looked to be fighting back a smile as well, though she read something else in his gaze, too. Disappointment, maybe, and she wondered if it had the same connotation as Sera’s. Bull… well, he looked rather pleased with himself just then, as though he’d just confirmed a pet theory he’d been nursing. _Fuck_ , Hara thought, as the futility of arguing washed over her.

“My, my, my,” came Varric’s teasing voice as he observed the flush on her skin. “Perhaps the Herald’s tale will read something like Swords and Shields after all.” 

“If I had a skillet at hand, I would beat you senseless,” Hara snapped, standing abruptly from the table, her chair making a muffled, scraping against the tavern’s sticky floor. “Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to bed. I should review our plans to close the Breach in the morning.”

“Those plans won’t warm your bed, Scarecrow!” Varric hollered after her. As the tavern door swung shut, Hara heard Blackwall ask him about the origins of her nickname and was doubly grateful she absconded when she did.

She took a hearty swig of Solas’ potion as soon as she entered her cabin and undressed swiftly, climbed into bed, and willed herself to sleep as soon as possible. If she had been capable of dreaming, she would’ve dreamt of elegant but calloused hands wandering across the planes of her stomach, thumbs resting against the curve of her hips.

— ✦—

Hara was up before dawn, outfitted in full armor with her two-headed axe swung across her back, pacing restlessly outside the Chantry as the sun crept its way over the horizon. She, Cullen, Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana were to have one last discussion before the rebel mages gathered outside and prepared to march on the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Leliana emerged from her tent and had stopped Hara’s pacing with a light touch to her shoulder and a pointed look. It would not do to look so nervous when the others arrived. She nodded her thanks to the Nightingale and wondered if she’d ever manage to become anything like her. Doubtful, Hara was sure, and she was not keen to get any more blood on her hands. The spymaster was practically bathed in it.

Cullen and Cassandra arrived next, and the four of them entered the Chantry in search of Josephine to complete their briefing and triple check their preparations before journeying to the temple. Cullen held the door to the war room open for them and they discovered Josephine already inside, a cup of tea in one hand and her quill in the other.

“May I?” Hara asked, gesturing to the pot. Josephine gave her a broad smile and nodded in response. She poured herself a rather full cup and was proud that her hands hardly trembled in the process.

“Everything is in order, yes?” Leliana asked, her lilting voice cutting through the silence in the room. It wasn’t tense, not exactly, but it seemed a cloud of anticipation hung around them, as thick if it were a fog rolling in across Lake Calenhad.

“Yes. The best of the mages are ready,” Cullen confirmed. “Herald…” He turned to face her directly, and Hara steeled herself for some sort of antagonization, some criticism, another of her failings laid bare for the advisors’ examination. The commander’s brown eyes reflected his apprehension, but there was no malice, only kindness and concern. “You must be certain you are prepared for the assault on the Breach. We cannot know how you will be affected.”

“I am as ready as I’ll ever be,” Hara replied with a false confidence she did not truly feel. She never thought she’d be prepared for this, but the more they dallied with the Breach, the more likely it seemed Alexius’ false future would come to pass.

“Very well,” Cullen replied, “Let us return to the Temple of Sacred Ashes and end this.” 

Hara simply nodded her response and stood from her seat at the war table. She didn’t trust herself to speak. As they exited the Chantry, Hara noted Solas, Dorian, and Vivienne speaking to a sizable group of mages in formation outside. Haven’s best and brightest, she figured, and those they’d handpicked to assist her in sealing the Breach. 

Hara managed to muster up an encouraging smile as the mages regarded her; she was shaking like a leaf on the inside, but there was no reason to add to any anxiety they might be feeling for themselves. Bull’s words last night had been wise—she could not show her nerves to them, could not allow fear to wrap icily around her heart, could not let it be the cause of their failure.

“On your ready, Herald,” Cullen stated.

Hara nodded firmly and took up her post at the head of their party, leading the mages towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes—and hopefully towards resolution rather than disaster. 

As they marched along the path, Hara tried to think of all the things she might do once the Breach had been sealed; she knew the Inquisition would have further need of the mark to seal the smaller rifts around the area, but perhaps they would allow her to do it on her own rather than as the figurehead of their growing organization. Perhaps she’d finally divest herself of the horrid title they’d stuck her with. Imagining herself as just “Hara” or even “Harellan,” on the off chance Solas continued to travel with her on these rift-sealing quests, was heartening. She would give almost anything to never be called a Herald again.

She hardly remembered the march, lost in her thoughts as she was, and they arrived at the scene in question before she realized it. Hara briefly cursed herself for daydreaming about future possibilities rather than preparing for the inevitability looming in front of her, but there was no time to waste in self-recrimination. Cassandra led her down into the valley while the mages took their posts above her, and the feeling of so much magical potential created a burning itch on the skin of her marked palm.

The Breach loomed above her, a great, sickly green, its mass swirling down at her as though it dared her to measure her might against its own. She swallowed, hard, and forced her face to assume an expression of determination rather than trepidation.

“Mages!” Solas shouted from above her, his voice loud and commanding. “Focus past the Herald! Let her will draw from you!”

A shiver ran down her spine at the commanding nature of Solas’ voice and suddenly, she was certain he had never been _just_ an apostate hedge mage exploring the wilderness, searching the Fade for long forgotten secrets. He was almost regal, and his imperial tone spurred her to action.

Hara thrust her hand upward towards the Breach, bolstered by the magic of the rebel mages and Solas’ encouraging voice, booming instructions to allow Hara to draw from their collective will. She grit her teeth, beads of sweat beginning to form at her temples, and her hand was _on fire_ —she could not breathe for the pain, it was so hot, searing, blistering her skin, it was _excruciating_ , she was shaking with the effort, the sheer _power_ flowing from her palm and into the Breach, and _Gods, it hurt so fucking bad—_ but she could not allow the magic on her palm to disconnect with the swirling, green wound above her. _Close,_ she willed.

It did. And more.

The sheer force of the magic’s reverberation knocked a number of the mages from their feet, and even Cassandra stumbled as a wave of magical energy crashed over her. A long moment of silence passed as the people around her reoriented themselves, and Hara turned to face the crowd gathered above them. Hara had expected to hear their triumphant cheers as the Breach sealed. 

A chorus of terrified screams came instead. 

She was ablaze, and they were horrified.

Flames had erupted along her skin, their point of origin the searing mark on her hand, and Hara was an inferno embodied. Fire swirled around her arms, her legs, her torso, and she wondered why she could not feel the burning anywhere but in her marked palm. Hara heard someone screaming but it sounded terribly far away, and she could not tear her gaze away from the blazing of her skin to find its origin.

Suddenly, the scream reached her ear, as high and clear as a bell. “Maker help us, Andraste burns again!”

Her vision swam and darkness overcame her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is HAPPENING???


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's short-ish, but it's important, and the next one (as you might anticipate) is likely to be looooong. as always, i live for your comments, your feedback, and your questions! 
> 
> xx camp

A burning ache tugged at the edges of her consciousness and Hara awoke to darkness. Her head felt terribly fuzzy and it seemed a desert had taken up residence in her mouth. She reached up to rub her face with her left hand, but the skin of her palm hurt _so fucking bad_ —and memories of closing the Breach came flooding back to her.

Hara sat upright and looked wildly about, her breathing heavy and panicked as she remembered _burning_. She had _burned_. Had they thought her an abomination and thrown her back in Haven’s dungeons? No, the soft surface underneath her precluded the dungeon’s dank stone floor, so she ruled that out. A tomb, then? What did it feel like to be inside a tomb? Cassandra had told her tales of the Nevarrans’ proclivity for keeping their dead in sealed crypts—perhaps they’d buried her alive and hadn’t realized she was still breathing. Her breath was loud, erratic in the darkness, and her panic intensified.

“ _Harellan_ ,” came a low voice, and she held her breath. 

“Solas?” Hara whispered into the void.

She saw some movement in the darkness and several tiny magelights sprung into existence, floating up towards the ceiling and illuminating her surroundings. Solas was sprawled out in an uncomfortable looking chair near her and it seemed she was on a cot in… the apothecary? _Of course_ , she thought. This was Adan’s spare room, meant for patients in such a delicate state he would not risk returning them to their quarters, preferring to keep the truly dire cases where his medicinals were close at hand. Solas rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand and looked to be biting back a yawn as he leaned toward her, three of the magelights above his head floating closer to illuminate her visage.

“I am glad to see you finally awake,” Solas said, his tone concerned but endearingly sleepy. He moved his chair closer to her cot and searched her face before resting his gaze on her marked hand. “How much do you remember?” 

“All of it,” Hara choked out, struggling to keep her breathing even, “But none of what came after. What’s wrong with me? Why is this happening to me? How did I survive?” The questions tumbled from her lips before she could give him a chance to formulate a response.

“It seems the mark has manifested some dormant magical potential, perhaps brought on by the experience of intense emotional distress. The fire you summoned seems connected to the mark’s energy, but why it did not consume you, I cannot say.” Solas’ tone was academic, but his expression was unmistakably concerned. “You fell unconscious after sealing the Breach. Dorian and I have been monitoring your condition in shifts. You’ve been unconscious all day and for much of the night.”

“I see,” she muttered bitterly, lowering her gaze to her marked palm and wrestling back a wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She thought of the magic she’d already been forced to bear, the time twisting magic in Redcliffe and the Breach utterly consuming the sky in that false future. The room began to spin. She took a deep, steadying breath and willed herself to focus exclusively on her hand. “More _fucking_ magic.”

If Solas said something in response, she did not hear him. This, she did not need.

Hara remembered the first time she’d seen an elven child taken from the alienage to be locked in Wycome’s circle tower. The girl couldn’t have been more than five and Hara was perhaps nine. Hara had been minding the girl while her mother was away at the night market; they were passing the time counting stars from a branch high up in the vhenadhal when they saw them over the alienage wall. A templar had cornered the child’s mother outside the alienage, claiming he had seen her steal bread from a human vendor. _You filthy fucking knife ear, I’ll teach you a lesson_. The woman begged, denied any wrongdoing, turned out all her pockets and upended the meager wicker basket she carried, filled with almost-spoilt produce. Her pleas fell on deaf ears.

The templar had pressed the woman roughly against a wall, one hand wrapped around her throat, the other fumbling at his belt. Before Hara could stop her the child sprung from the tree and screamed like a feral thing, hot, angry tears pouring down her small face as she sprinted out of the alienage’s gates and to her mother’s side. _Mamae, mamae! You can’t hurt mamae!_ She reached up to wrench the Templar’s hand away from her mother’s throat and sparks of electricity arced wildly from her tiny hands, a barrage of energy amplified by the metal of his armor. The man seized, fell, and died; all that power, all that posturing, snuffed out by a screaming babe. It was a miracle her mother survived the ordeal, caught in the middle as she was.  

It was only a matter of time before the Order came. The alienage elders agonized over the decision as the mother begged and pleaded for her child, but ultimately the elders chose to give up the girl without a fight lest they risk a purge orchestrated by the city guard. Hara had never seen her grandfather so furious. He demanded they protect the child until she could be given to Clan Lavellan, but he had been but one rational voice against a panicked tide. The mother cut her own throat the night they took her child away. Hara did not know what became of the girl after the Templars came. She did not want to know.

“I don’t want it,” Hara finally replied, her tone bitter as she dug her nails into her aching palm.

She heard a sharp intake of breath and raised her eyes to look at him. Solas' expression was pained, his brow furrowed as he weighed her response. Hara saw Solas’ lips part but she found she did not want to hear whatever he had to say, especially if it was in defense of the magic—old or new—on her hand. She remembered how he'd sounded as he waxed poetic about the magic of Elvhenan— _beings for whom magic came as easily as breathing. That is what was lost_. Hara would never begrudge him his magic—the ways he used it to protect and defend, to create enchantments, to shield their party from such a little thing as bad weather—it delightful and useful, a _gift_ , truly. But it was a gift she had never envied for herself. 

“Can you take it from me? The magic? The anchor?” She whispered, pleading. Hara was ashamed at the smallness of her voice, the desperation of the question, the tears pooling behind her eyes as she glowered at the flesh of her hand. She could not meet his gaze.

“I—cannot. I have tried,” he confessed, and Hara’s head rose sharply, her eyes wide with surprise as she regarded him. Solas pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, a muscle in his jaw twitching, betraying some underlying emotion she could only guess at.

“You tried,” Hara repeated, surprised by his admission. Her eyebrows were raised high on her forehead, crinkling the golden branches of her vallaslin.

“Yes,” Solas confirmed, finally looking at her. He looked ashamed and it twisted something deep inside her chest. “When I watched over you in Haven’s dungeon—” He stopped, his brows furrowed as he searched for words.

Several long moments passed before he spoke again.

“The mark was killing you, Harellan,” he finally said, and Solas’ voice was so wounded, so thick with agony that the pain in her chest grew. “It was only luck that it stabilized after sealing the first rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I had managed to contain it for a time, but the mark was spreading, consuming you, tearing you apart. I tried to transfer it to myself, to bear the weight of the magic when your body could not. I failed. ”

Wheels in her brain clicked into place, memories of Redcliffe flooding back to her, and she could not stop her treacherous mouth from moving.

“Was this it, Solas?” Hara whispered, her brown eyes boring fiercely into his blue, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Pardon?” Solas asked, his elegant auburn brows knit together in confusion, expression shifting from remorse to bewilderment in a matter of moments.

 _If it had been a mistake_ , she thought, _perhaps he had not tried hard enough. Perhaps the mark could have been removed, but he had given up. Perhaps he decided it would be better if I simply died, if he never had to contend with this sickly power for himself. Perhaps he could have spared me this misery in the end, before it awoke some godsforsaken magic lying dormant underneath my skin._

“Was this _it_?” Hara repeated, her jaw clenched, biting back a deluge of angry accusations. Her sudden fury at him sent her head spinning and she struggled to hold together the threads of the conversation. “Your grand _mistake_?”

Solas regarded her with such alarm just then, his expression rather like a lone halla cornered by a hungry wolf. He opened his mouth but could not seem to will his lips to form a word, immobilized by her question as sweat began to bead faintly at his temples.

“You told me, you know,” Hara spat, a desire to wound him, to blame him overcoming all reason, all rationality, all feelings of affection burned away by her anger at the mark on her palm. “In Redcliffe. You asked me to tell you not to make _this mistake_ again. Is this it? Could you have kept this from happening?” She waved her marked palm for emphasis, as though she could have possibly been talking about anything else.

The expression on his face doused the flames of her anger. _Wrecked_ , she thought. He looked utterly wrecked, as though the question had shattered something terribly fragile he kept tucked away deep inside himself. Solas reached towards her with one elegant hand and she did not have the strength to pull away from him, not when he looked at her with such devastation scrawled across his face. His cool fingertips brushed against the aching skin of her marked palm and the blue of his magic washed over her in a wave of relief.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he whispered as he stroked his fingertips across the angry wound on her palm, tracing along the lines of her hand with his index finger. “I did what I could. It was not enough.” He sounded as though he were apologizing for a thousand things beyond the magic he failed to remove from her palm; Hara almost asked him if this was so, but he looked so fucking _broken_ just then, she couldn't bring herself to deepen the wound. His regret was so tangible she could almost taste it; it settled like ash in her mouth. 

“Solas, I—” Hara started, meaning to apologize for her hard-heartedness, her condemnation, her misplaced fury. She couldn’t blame him for this. It wasn’t as though he’d caused the explosion at the Conclave, had placed the sickly green magic of the Breach upon her hand, had willed some dormant magic inside her wretched body to manifest. 

A great bell sounded and her marked palm sprung to life, crackling ferociously in the relative darkness of the apothecary, and Hara swallowed her words. She could feel it in her bones.

Something awful was coming.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ugh :( 
> 
> xx camp

Hara grit her teeth against the pain that washed over her as the mark sprung to life again, seemingly unaffected by the healing magic Solas had poured into it only moments before. It seemed angry, felt ravenous and hot, like it was _reaching for something_ , and dread settled like a pit in the bottom of her stomach. It reacted in much the same way when they’d been beset by the demon army this Elder One had commanded in Alexius’ blighted future. When she began to hear panicked voices replace the revelry outside, she knew she had to find out what was happening and fast.

She sprung up from the cot, heedless of Solas’ admonition that she was in no state to be moving with such alacrity considering the events of the day, but Hara did not feel weakness, she felt urgency, and so she set into a mad search about the apothecary for her armor. Someone had removed her pauldrons, vambraces, and gauntlets while she’d been unconscious and she desperately needed to find them. She was not about to charge headfirst into unknown danger in leathers with no protective overlay.

“ _Fenedhis_ , Solas, where is all my shit?!” Hara cursed as she stopped her search to look at him; she was wild-eyed, her heart hammering out a mad beat against her ribcage as she heard the panic outside intensify. She found him with her vambraces already in hand, and in the bedlam, she simply stuck out her arms, a wordless request to buckle them for her.

Solas swiftly secured one and then the other over her forearms, his fingertips brushing against the underside of her wrists in a way that might have been intimate if it weren’t for the steadily growing atmosphere of dread; she was sure he could feel the madness of her heartbeat even through the leather of her armor. She was too glad for the help to be embarrassed at the intimacy as she regarded her shaking hands. She wasn’t scared, not really, not _yet_ , but the adrenaline was racing through her veins with such fervor that she was trembling.

It seemed Solas found her pauldrons as well, and he did not ask permission before clasping them to her shoulders with a familiarity they had never shared before, save the times he’d wrapped her feet and braided her hair. It felt like aeons ago. _May I?_ _Allow me._ She shook her head in an effort to refocus. Hara spotted her gauntlets near her cot— _how had she missed them?_ —and made to pull them on, the hardened leather settling securely around her hands. In her distraction, Solas knelt before her in order to secure her greaves over her well-worn boots. 

Hara meant to protest, to insist she do it herself, to ask him what he thought he was doing, given this closeness was diametrically opposed to the distance he’d wedged between them not a week earlier. She could not find the words but made to move away from him, sliding her left leg back and away from his searching hands; he simply tightened his grip on her, fingertips pressing into the sensitive place behind her knee as he held her in place to finish the task he’d begun. Solas affixed her greaves with astonishing speed and she was suddenly glad for his disobedience. 

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” Hara breathed, gazing down at him. It felt exceptionally intimate as their eyes met from this angle, as Solas looked up at her with a ghost of a smile on his lips in spite of the urgency of the situation. She felt her cheeks begin to color as realized his head was perfectly level with her hips; it was an entirely inappropriate time to imagine how this might look without armor and with their roles reversed.

Solas cleared his throat and made to stand, and in that moment she bolted away from him, snagging her axe from where it leaned against the door beside his staff. Hara did not bother asking him to come; somehow, she just knew he’d follow her. She rushed down Haven’s paths, passing terrified villagers and half-drunk soldiers gathering snow into their hands to press against their faces in an effort to induce sobriety. She flew to Haven’s gates and exhaled a sigh of relief when she spotted Cassandra and Commander Cullen; they were engaged in an intense conversation judging by the severe expressions on their faces. It was the first time she’d ever been gratified to see the Commander and, as she took in the hardened look on his face, she half-hoped it wouldn’t be the last. He could not grow on her if one or both of them were dead.

“Commander,” Hara rushed out, skidding to a halt in front of him. “What’s happened? Has the Breach reopened?” She stopped with such urgency that Solas nearly stumbled into her, his hand ghosting along her back as he righted himself from their abrupt halt.

“Herald!” Cullen cried in surprise, but he looked gratified at their appearance. He stared at her for a moment and then shifted his gaze to Solas, perhaps wondering if she were about to burst into flame or if the apostate had managed to reign in the mad magic that erupted from her palm when she sealed the Breach. “You could not have awoken at a more opportune time."

 _Fuck_ , Hara thought. What was that supposed to mean? _Had the Breach reopened? Were demons pouring from the sky? Was this just one more complete and utter failure on her behalf?_ She felt herself sway.

Cassandra clasped her by the forearm, seeming to sense that she needed to be steadied, grounded with physicality for the information to come. “Steady, Herald.”

“As a rock,” she lied, forcing herself to find and maintain her center of gravity. Hara suddenly caught sight of Josephine, who looked distinctly ready to cry. _Fenedhis_. “What’s going on here?”

“An army marches on Haven, Herald,” the Commander said, his tone steely, voice low and grave. “It is a massive force, the bulk over the mountain.”

“And under no banner!” Josephine added quickly, her voice borderline hysterical as she clutched her writing tablet to her chest, a makeshift shield against her visceral panic. Hara had never seen the ambassador like this; it was deeply unsettling to see the Antivan so rattled. Her omnipresent candle had gone out and the angle at which the ambassador held the tablet threatened to drip red wax onto the fine yellow silk of her blouse.

“This bodes poorly,” Solas murmured from behind her, readjusting his grip on his staff. Hara almost rolled her eyes at him. _Everything we do bodes poorly._

Hara’s lips parted with the intention of requesting more information, to ask whether the commander had called their forces to arms, to determine whether he believed they could survive this. The questions died in her mouth as a great force quaked against Haven’s gates, wood shaking with such intensity that Hara wondered if these unnamed forces had arrived with a battering ram. She swung her axe out of the holster on her back and lowered herself into a practiced defensive stance, ready to meet whoever—or whatever—was about to burst through from the other side. The juvenile voice that followed caught her completely off guard.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” It cried, panicked and just beyond the gates. It sounded so young, so desperate, and it twisted something in her gut. Hara had never been able to abide a scared child, and now it seemed the Inquisition was the cause of one.

“ _Fenedhis_!” Hara cursed, hating the frantic quality of her voice as she made to open Haven’s gates. “We’ve shut someone out!” She wrenched open the gates with Solas’ assistance and the sight that greeted them sent shockwaves of panic rippling through her body. The armored figure before her looked precisely like the soldiers she’d seen in Redcliffe castle, and again in Alexius’ false future. _Venatori._ The soldier slumped suddenly, a dagger protruding from his gut, and the squelching noise it made as whomever wielded the blade removed it from his bowels did nothing to quell her panic. As the dead man fell, the sight of a young man—rather more _a boy_ , really—appeared. 

“I’m Cole,” the boy said from underneath an impossibly large hat, sheathing the dagger he carried and stepping over the dead soldier’s body as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a young man to be doing. “I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know.”

“That much we knew, yes. What is happening?” Hara breathed, reaching forward to draw the strange boy inside Haven’s gates. “Who is coming?”

“The Templars come to kill you,” he replied in response, his tone grave but the cadence strange, the lilt of his voice somehow calming.

“Templars?!” Cullen shouted, bristling at the news, all anger and shock. “Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

Hara choked back a bitter _I told you so._

“The Red Templars went to the Elder One,” the boy named Cole supplied, “You know _him_? He knows _you_. You took his mages.”

“I should have known,” Hara spat, and the boy drew her gaze high up over the Frostbacks, gesturing out towards a looming figure in the distance, flanked by Templars wielding torches and armed to the teeth besides. Hara was sure she was imagining things, she had to be—she’d prevented the false future Alexius spun from happening, but… She swore she saw shards of red lyrium protruding grotesquely from the stretched face of a skeletal man in the distance, feathered pauldrons accentuating ribs jutting out from grey, stretched skin. She blinked and shook her head forcefully, and yet the vision remained intact. _The only way out is through_ , she thought, horror at the sight threatening to overcome her.

Cullen let out a strangled cry of surprise as his gaze followed Cole’s finger. “I know that man!” He fixated on a man in strange armor in the distance standing next to the skeletal abomination. “But this Elder One…”

“He’s very angry that you took his mages,” Cole contributed, and the innocence in his voice broke her heart. He wasn’t a child, not really, but there was something so earnestly pure about him, so diametrically opposed to the gravity of the situation that it hurt.

“Cullen,” Hara said, looking up at the commander, her voice hard and yet filled with desperation at the same time. She had to protect this boy, Haven, everything, every _one._ “Give me a plan. Anything!”

“Haven is no fortress,” the commander responded, pain and regret flitting across his face at the admission, as though he were already expecting grave casualties resultant from this encounter. “If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can!”

 _Everything_ , Hara thought, clenching her marked palm as she thought of the fiery magic lying dormant within. She could not control it, did not want it, but she would somehow rip the burning force from her skin if it meant saving even one person from a horrible fate.

“Mages!” Cullen suddenly announced, turning to a group of magi and Inquisition soldiers that had gathered around Haven’s gates at someone’s order—presumably Cassandra, given her sudden absence—to assist with their defense. “You—“ the commander started, his voice hesitant as he weighed the implications of the order he was about to give. “You have sanction to engage with them! That man is called Samson. He will not make it easy!” 

— ✦ —

 _For your lives_ , Cullen had bellowed to the crowd. _For the Herald. For us all_. She had taken it to heart, had fought valiantly alongside Solas, Varric, and the Iron Bull for their lives, for their troops, and for the civilians of Haven. They were a force of destruction against templars corrupted by red lyrium, abominations whose very limbs had transformed into shards of the sickly substance, and great, hulking beasts whose deformed appendages fractured the ground they fought on. They had managed to defend the trebuchets, to volley attacks on the mountain, to bury waves of enemy forces underneath ice and snow and rock. All of this, they accomplished with the support of their rebel mage allies, their troops, their scouts—even their workers—simple scullery maids, gentle folk who tended Dennet’s stables, Chantry sisters who wielded sermons, never swords—leapt to arms to defend the home they’d made made upon the mountain.

All of this, and Haven was burning below the breath of a dragon.

All of this, and they’d only just managed to help Harritt gather his things before the armory was destroyed. All of this, and Flissa had a gaping, mortal wound in her side. All of this, and they had only just rescued Adan from a near-deadly explosion outside of the apothecary. All of this, and Minaeve had died in her arms, Seggritt had burnt alive, Threnn was overcome by a group of red Templars who had cornered her near the Chantry. All of this, and Hara still had failed, culpable for each and every miserable casualty.

Though the Iron Bull managed to carry Flissa’s fading, bloody form through the Chantry’s doors, it seemed likely she would die, too. Three more senseless deaths—likely four, added to the body count. Hara felt her heart splinter with each passing, fragmented by the trauma, the devastation, the shock of losing so many people she’d begun to care about, each death her failing and her failing alone.

She had no right, no right at all to stand safely behind the Chantry’s doors. And yet, there she was, safe inside the Chantry and watching Chancellor Roderick bleed to death in a strange boy’s arms.

“Herald!” Cullen shouted when he spotted them enter through the Chantry’s gates, striding briskly towards their group. “Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.”

“I’ve seen an archdemon," Cole whispered, turning his head to gaze up at Hara and Cullen as he pressed his pale hands against the chancellor’s stomach in an attempt to stifle the flow of his blood. “I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.” Solas’ eyes widened in surprise at his admission, but he did not offer a response.

“I don’t care what it looks like,” Cullen snapped, wiping sweat from his eyes with the back of one hand. “It has cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven!” 

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village,” Cole argued, his voice gentle. “He only wants the Herald.” 

“Then he can fucking have me,” Hara spat, hands clenched into shaking fists at her side. “I will do anything to prevent more needless death.” 

Solas and the Commander gave simultaneous, strangled cries of protest, objection synthesized as they regarded her with twin looks of disapproval.

“He wants to kill you,” Cole continued, his voice serious but strangely calm, “No one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway. I don’t like him.” 

“Guy’s a real prick, kid,” Varric chimed in, his words jocular but his face serious, bushy eyebrows furrowed in concern. He looked up at the commander and Hara hated the somber expression on the dwarf's visage. It did not suit him at all. “Any way she comes out of this shit alive, Commander?”

Cullen paused for a long moment and looked to be agonizing over his response. “There are no tactics to make this survivable,” he finally said. “The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.” 

“We’re overrun,” Hara responded, pinching the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb as she weighed the consequences of such an action. “To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven.”

“We’re dying, but we can decide how,” Cullen said in response, his voice thick with emotion, “Many don’t get that choice.” 

Hara thought suddenly of her frail grandfather, shivering alongside her as he died on the floor of their meager shelter so many years ago. Would the commander choose to bury Haven under freezing ice and snow if he knew how it felt to shiver to death? Her lips parted with the intention of asking him just that, but Cole’s gentle voice stopped her. 

“Yes, that,” the boy murmured, gazing up at Chancellor Roderick with a tender look set upon his young face, “Chancellor Roderick wants to help. He wants to say it before he dies.”

“There is a path. You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the Summer Pilgrimage, as I have,” Roderick wheezed, blood pooling from his mouth with the effort of speech. “The people _can_ escape. She must’ve shown me. _Andraste_ must have shown me so I could… impart this knowledge to her reincarnation.” The chancellor gazed at Hara with such intensity, such awe, such _worship_ that it turned her stomach, bile rising in her throat as she realized what he’d called her.

 _Her reincarnation?_ Just then, Hara remembered a high, panicked scream in the air. _Andraste burns again!_ She could not find the words to deny his disturbing assertion and focused instead on the practical implications of what he had revealed.

“What about it, Cullen?” Hara asked, gazing up at the commander with the fire of desperation burning in her eyes. “Will it work?”

“Possibly,” he murmured in response, hand rubbing thoughtfully along the stubble on his chin. “ _If_ he shows us the path. But what of your escape?” 

Hara simply stared at him. She had no expectations for surviving this.

“Perhaps you will surprise it,” Cullen murmured, but the doubt in his voice betrayed his lack of confidence, “Perhaps you will… find a way.” When she did not answer, he quickly turned to face the civilians and soldiers at the back of the Chantry. “Inquisiton!” He shouted. “Follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry! Move!”  

Cole helped the chancellor to his feet, one hand around his shoulder and the other pressed against the dire wound in his gut. It was a wonder he could stand at all, his feet dragging against the Chantry’s dusty floors as the young man led him away. Hara felt sick at the reverent look he gave her as he receded into the distance. She could feel her companions eyes on her all at once—but she had nothing to say as she watched the commander flit about the Chantry, barking instructions rapidly to groups of scouts and soldiers, some loading the wounded onto makeshift carts, others steeling themselves in preparation for what was to come.

Cullen returned to the front of the Chantry with a handful of battle hardened soldiers. “They’ll load the trebuchets,” Cullen said, gesturing to the loyal men who swiftly pushed past the Chantry’s doors to afford them a chance, “Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line. If we are to have a chance—if _you_ are to have a chance—Herald, you must let that thing hear you.”

Hara nodded her response and turned to face the Iron Bull, Varric, and Solas. _Solas_ … He was needed elsewhere. 

“Bull, Varric,” Hara addressed them. “Are you sure you want to do this? I cannot in good conscience ask you to follow me down this path.”

“Scarecrow, I’d follow you to the end of the world any day. You owe me too much money,” Varric grinned, reaching up to clasp her shoulder fondly. 

Hara smiled faintly at his response and turned to Bull. “You got it, Boss. Any time you need an ass kicked, the Iron Bull is with you,” he offered, and then fixed her with a distinctly inappropriate grin. “Told you I had a thing for redheads, didn’t I?”

She ignored his ribbing and steeled herself for what she had to do next.

“Solas,” Hara said quietly as she turned to face him. “I need you to stay with the injured.” She could not meet his gaze but felt him bristle at her words; she knew he would make this more difficult than it had to be. 

“You cannot ask this of me!” Solas shouted angrily in response, and the intensity in his voice drew her gaze. Hara had never seen him so livid; he was practically incandescent with fury, his face flushed with anger.

Just then, Hara spotted Dorian in the distance, assisting a Chantry sister as she hurriedly stuffed medicinal supplies into a chest.

“Dorian will come with me!” Hara clamored, shoving away the guilt she felt about dragging him through another set of horrors. She waved the Tevinter over furiously and he was at her side in an instant, staff in hand, mustache bristling, and a grave look on his face. “He has seen me through worse!" 

“Worse? _Fenedhis_ , Harellan, nothing could _possibly_ be worse than an _archdemon!”_   Solas barked, and he fisted his hands around her pauldrons, shaking her by the plate of her armor for emphasis. Wide-eyed, Hara took in the pained crease between his brows, the wildness of his eyes, the flare of his nostrils, the teeth worrying his lower lip roughly.

Solas had never spoken her name in mixed company before and she saw confusion and interest bloom across their companions’ faces. The Iron Bull narrowed his eye, Dorian’s brows shot up dramatically, and Varric looked as though he were about to mount an interrogation. Thankfully, it seemed the three men had the good sense to table the discussion until the threat of death and dismemberment had passed. If it passed.

Hara forgave him. She had never seen Solas so unsettled, so shaken, so… scared. And yet. They were running out of time.

“We are wasting valuable time! Solas, _please_ ,” Hara begged, her heart wrenching as she thought about the gaping wound in Flissa’s side. She was likely to bleed to death—and perhaps she wouldn’t live even with his skilled magical intervention—but the woman had absolutely no chance in the void if he did not help her. “ _Please_ , I need you to go with them. I am begging you! There are too many wounded and they will not survive this without your help! It is too much for Vivienne to handle alone and Dorian is shit at healing. You are the _logical choice!_ ” Her voice cracked even as she bellowed at him, and she hated herself for the weakness it betrayed.

“What?! I’ll have you know I’m quite effective, so long as they’re thoroughly dead first.” Dorian protested, but the look on Hara’s face cowed him into silence immediately. “Reanimation is nothing to sneeze at, you know,” he muttered fussily, as though he couldn’t abide a snipe at his magical skills without at least some snark in response. She almost laughed at his offense, grateful for the humor he’d infused into this impossibly dire situation.

“ _Ma nuvenin_ ,” Solas muttered, though the acquiescence seemed to pain him.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” Hara replied, grasping his hands in thanks. Her heart leapt with gratitude and thankful tears stung the corners of her eyes. She made to drop his hands but he tightened his grip on her, squeezing her hands tightly before hesitantly releasing her.

“With me,” she said, turning from Solas to address Dorian, Varric, and the Iron Bull. “We have to hit this beast with everything we’ve got.” A chorus of determined faces stared back at her. “Bull?” Hara prompted, and the giant looked at her expectantly. “Are you ready to slay a fucking dragon?”

The Qunari responded with a grin that was at once as vicious as it was joyful. “I was born for this, Boss.”

“Alright. Let’s end this, but first, let me make one thing clear,” Hara declared, eyes narrowed with determination. “I will not lose a single one of you. I will not abide more death. Should I tell you to run, you run. Should I tell you to abandon me and save yourselves, you must do so without question.”

It took a moment, but each man nodded their acquiescence, a nonverbal agreement to her terms. She breathed a sigh of relief, grateful they were willing to join her, more so they were willing to leave her behind. Hara grasped her axe firmly in her hands and nodded to each of them. Bull pushed open the Chantry’s doors with a great battlecry and she felt emboldened with these men—her _friends_ —alongside her as they left the Chantry to tempt the fates.

They had only just made it outside when she heard him.

“Harellan!” Solas called after her, and the anguish in his voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

Hara whipped around to face him, her long braid flying in the icy wind outside the Chantry. Solas strode up to her, his face a mixture of fear, fury, and… _No._ He had looked at her like that once before, but it had not been real then, could not be real now. She would not allow herself to think it.

Hara held her breath as he closed swiftly closed the distance between them, his hands searching for her with an almost blind desperation. Solas took her face in his hands and he kissed her, his mouth crushed sweetly against hers, hands tilting her face up to deepen the kiss. When he pressed his tongue against the seam of her mouth, she opened to him without hesitation, arms snaking around his neck of their own accord to pull him closer. He tasted like she remembered—elfroot, peppermint, and faintly of ale—and now, of despair tinged with regret.

She felt her heart hammering out a mad rhythm against her ribcage as his fingers pressed against her jaw; Solas held her tightly, as though he feared she would disappear into thin air. He had changed his mind, it seemed, as she strode to her death. It was almost cruel. The desperation of the moment sent her head spinning and memories of their last goodbye in Redcliffe crashed through her— _please, vhenan_.

She shoved the recollection away forcefully, concentrating on the feeling of his lips against hers, his teeth scraping her bottom lip with the urgency of his kiss. If one or both of them perished, if this was all she’d ever have of him again, she wanted to remember every last detail: the way his hands felt pressed against her back, the heat of his mouth, the feeling of his tongue sliding languidly against hers. It felt like a lifetime passed between them in the blink of an eye. They broke apart, breathing ragged with the intensity of the moment. He pressed a final, chaste kiss to the bow of her lips, his lips grazing a freckle there she’d always hated. As he pulled away, Solas brushed his thumb across her lower lip. There were a thousand unsaid words in the pained expression on his face.

“You _will_ come back to me,” Solas commanded, and the intensity of his voice sent a shiver down her spine entirely unrelated to the freezing temperatures or the fear that permeated Haven.

“Solas, I—“ Hara started, her voice thick with emotion, but her eyes caught the sight of great horns cresting the hill and the moment was gone, reality crashing down around her.

“Boss!” The Iron Bull shouted as he ran back up the path to the Chantry, and if he’d noticed the moment between them, he knew now was not the time to hash it through. “We gotta move!” 

Hara gave Solas a lingering look but she did not trust herself to speak; she hoped he could read the promise in her eyes. She tore off after Bull as Solas disappeared back inside the Chantry, her thighs aching with the effort to catch up with him, Varric, and Dorian further down the path to the trebuchet they were to fire in a last desperate attempt to save the people of Haven.

She'd never been the praying type. 

She prayed she'd see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL????????
> 
> ps - That line about abandoning her and saving themselves is shamelessly lifted from Dumbledore's speech to Harry as they prepare to retrieve RAB's locket. 
> 
> Fenedhis - a Dalish curse, lit. wolf dick  
> Ma serannas - my thanks  
> Ma nuvenin - as you wish  
> vhenan - (my) heart


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :') 
> 
> xx camp

When Dorian, the Iron Bull, and Varric stumbled into their makeshift camp, Solas was upon them in an instant. Harellan was missing—he could not see her, could not feel her, and he was panicked. The magic of the anchor had been altogether silenced, as though she’d been nothing more than a figment of his imagination, the bearer of his magic—and now, her own, it seemed—reduced to nothing more than a candle extinguished in the wind.

“Where is she?” Solas rushed out as he met them stumbling in the snow. Varric looked rather worse for wear, his nose broken for what was perhaps the fourth time, a layer of old blood crusted into his mustache and beard. The Iron Bull was painted with gore and ichor that belong to others as well as himself. Solas took in a great gash across the Qunari’s massive chest that had been cleaned and packed with snow; it was red and angry, in desperate need of stitches. Dorian was the worst of them; he had a nasty head wound and his tone was ashen, limbs trembling from the cold as he leaned heavily against the Iron Bull for support. They all would need medical attention soon, or else they’d risk infection, ill-set bones, and worse.

They were not his priority.

Silence hung thickly in the air and Solas clenched his hands into fists at his side. “Where is she?” He repeated, his tone low and dangerous this time, eyes narrowed and a deep, angry line forming between his auburn brows.

Dorian, pale and at once sweaty, regarded him with a remorseful look upon his face, as though he knew he’d made some grave error in judgment. “Solas,” he began, his usual bluster replaced with quietude. The man reeked of regret _._

“You left her,” Solas accused, his tone hostile as he stared at the three men with narrowed eyes. He could feel mana pooling beneath his palms on its own accord, his anger the harbinger of vengeful magic. Would that she were there to grasp his hand, to prevent him from making some grave mistake as she’d done months ago in Val Royeaux.

“It’s my fault,” Dorian confessed, eyes lowered with shame as the Iron Bull steadied him, one great hand upon the mage’s shoulder. The man looked entirely drained, and when Solas’ extended his aura to brush against the Tevinter’s, he was alarmed to find it faint and insubstantial where it was usually heady and flamboyant. It seemed likely he had been close to death, exhausted as his mana was.

This knowledge did nothing to stifle his fury.

“Explain,” Solas ordered, advancing on the altus, a predatory quality to his gait as he closed the distance between them. The Iron Bull regarded him from above, his eye narrowed as he read the intention behind Solas’ body language; he subtly tightened the grip he had on Dorian’s shoulders, though the twitch of his hand was almost imperceptible. 

“We had no choice, Chuckles,” Varric reasoned, placing himself between Solas and the Tevinter, though there was a wounded quality to his voice. “Sparkler was dying. He had already used the last of his magic when that fucking archdemon swooped in. He almost killed himself throwing a barrier over Scarecrow before we fell back.”

“Am I to understand you let her die to cover your retreat?” Solas hissed in accusation, pushing past Varric and closing the distance between himself and Dorian to fist his hands around the straps of the man’s ostentatious armor. The Iron Bull released Dorian’s shoulder and took one step backwards, his great axe in hand in but a moment. Solas paid the Qunari no mind, his eyes fixated on the weak and trembling Tevinter before him.

“Easy, Chuckles,” Varric warned, his tone dangerous as he regarded Solas’ fists clenched around the straps of Dorian’s armor. The dwarf lifted one hairy hand and placed it on Solas’ forearm, a silent request to release the unusually pale Tevinter from his grasp. 

Solas regarded the dwarf’s hand on his forearm with narrowed eyes, his jaw clenched tightly, a muscle there twitching from the pressure of gritting his teeth together with such force. Dorian made a strangled noise deep in the back of this throat, and Solas’ eyes snapped back to regard him. He was a man broken, crushed underneath the weight of his own guilt. Solas briefly considered the implications of killing this man—this Tevinter _altus_ —whom Harellan had mistakenly placed her trust in. Perhaps it would be a kindness. After all, her blood was on his hands, and nothing stung so bitterly as the knowledge of the needless death of another—a death that might have prevented if it were not for miscalculations, cowardice, grave errors in judgment. _Who could better understand than he?_

“The Boss made her choice,” Bull interjected, his voice hard and tempered with resolve, “She _threw fire_ at us when we tried to hang behind. She wanted it this way,” he finished, declaring it as though it were a simple fact. Solas noted a subtle, broken quality to the timbre of the giant man’s voice. Thousands of years stalking the poisonous halls of Arlathan had tuned his ear to listen for subtle fractures of weakness, and Solas was certain some part of the Qunari did not believe his own admission.

“Do not speak to me about choices of life or death, Iron Bull,” Solas spat in the Qunari’s general direction. He had not taken his eyes off of Dorian. The man looked as though he knew he should be petrified by Solas’ hold on him but his face betrayed a sad resignation instead. “Your belief in the Qun precludes it. And you, Varric. How could you leave her behind? She _trusted_ you.”

“You heard her in the Chantry. We made a promise!” Varric explained, his voice impatient but thick with emotion. He looked like a man who hadn’t weighed the consequences of betting his life savings and would now do anything to reverse time, to take it all back, to avoid learning the game in the first place if he’d known this would be the cost. “You know how seriously she takes that shit. Would you have us betray her trust instead?”

“If it meant she lived in your stead? In an instant,” Solas spat. His words were harsh, but he hadn’t felt this way in eons. He was _ruined_. It felt as though his heart had been forcibly ripped from his chest. She was lost to him, and he would never again be infuriated by her, challenged by her, captivated by her presence. She should have been nothing more than a shadow of a shadow, a nuisance, a distraction. Instead, she had become a friend, a rare and marvelous spirit who might have been something _more_. She made him… uncertain. She was a risk. He could not afford to doubt himself, to doubt his plans, to doubt the nature of this world. The knowledge of her passing should have relieved him.

It destroyed him instead.

Solas had pitied her when she whispered her name to him in her drunkenness. _Ma’ melin Harellan_ , she breathed in the darkness. She had claimed a part of him during the confrontation that followed, when he’d seen the rapturous look upon her face as he tried to label her a traitor, a liar, to wound her with the designation. The explanation she had given in its wake… _We were not named for traitors, Solas. We were named for rebels._ He had been hopeless after that, and she had taken more of him without realizing in the weeks to follow. Solas knew this closeness was unwise but he was a man starved, and her wit, her humor, her ferocity, her compassion—it all made her irresistible in the end. His chest ached as he considered the brevity of their relationship—if one could even call what they had a _relationship._ It had been reduced to nothing more than two, impassioned kisses—one, he had regretted in an instant, and the other, he wished had lasted an eternity. Part of him was eternally grateful for this weakness, for the memory of her lips against his mouth, the feeling of her skin under his hands. It was all of her that remained, and even as he considered the powerful ache where his heart should have been, he was sure it was better than nothing. 

“Chuckles? Did you hear me?” _Varric_. Solas blinked.

The dwarf’s voice startled him and Solas realized he had been lost in thought. Varric was staring up at him with a concerned look upon his face. It seemed he had been staring blankly ahead, hands still fisted tightly around the leather straps of Dorian’s armor, lost in thoughts of her. He exhaled a long, steady breath through flared nostrils and released the Tevinter, flexing the tension from his hands as the altus stumbled backward. Solas looked at the dwarf expectantly.

“I said there’s a chance she’s still alive,” Varric repeated, and Solas tried to reign in the hope that blossomed in his chest.

— ✦—

Hara could not say how long she’d been stumbling through the ice, the wind, the darkness. She had been using her marked hand as a beacon, a source of light and warmth and flame against the blizzard that surrounded her. She had wrenched the magic from her palm in her desperation, her panic as the magister and his dragon bore down on them, and she had not been able to quench the flames once they had erupted from her hand. 

She was desperate to return to them, to share the horrible knowledge this _Corypheus_ had imparted before she brought down the mountain on him and his sick, tainted beast. She wearily pushed forward, slogging her way through the ice and snow, grateful for the few markers the Inquisition had left behind. _Here_ , the day’s old remnants of a fire, its embers cold but recent. _There_ , a wagon, its bed covered in rocks pointing the way forward in the shape of a curved phallus. _Sera_ , Hara thought, and she managed to smile through her exhaustion, heartened by the sight. She stumbled on blindly, hoping against hope that she would reach them before she died of hypothermia.

It was Cullen who found her first, burning in the darkness.

“There! It’s her!” The commander shouted, his voice a booming beacon in the darkness that threatened to overcome her. She almost cried with relief at the sight of the ridiculous, red feathered pauldrons he wore. “Thank the Maker!" 

“I knew I w-w-w-would be glad to s-see you s-s-s-ome day,” Hara bit out, her teeth chattering noisily with the cold as he gathered her into his arms. She held her burning hand away from him, fearful she would ignite his armor with her marked hand. Hara stuck her freezing nose into the plumage about his neck and groaned at the feeling of the commander’s warmth against her frozen skin—it was agony.

Cullen laughed, perhaps half in relief and perhaps half in agreement, as he carried her into the makeshift camp the refugees from Haven had made. There were too few soldiers, too few scouts, too few civilians, and her heart broke with guilt and anguish and culpability. She had wrought this destruction upon them, and she could not bear the veneration with which they regarded her as the commander carried her and her burning palm further into camp.

It seemed he was taking her to a healer’s tent. She spotted Mother Giselle offering words of comfort to the wounded, and when they locked eyes, her expression was gentle but blessedly not nearly so worshipful as the others’. Cullen shifted her further back into the tent, seemingly to afford her some privacy, and went to lay her trembling form on a cot. A movement out of the corner of her eye stole her breath, and Hara gave a strangled cry as recognition clicked into place.

 _Solas._ She was ruined at the sight of him.

His expression was one of unrestrained joy as he rushed towards her, arms outstretched, mouth agape as though he meant to call out to her but could not command his lips to form the words. Hara struggled out of Cullen’s grip and stumbled towards Solas, their forms colliding, and she breathed a choked, exhausted sigh of relief when he gathered her into his arms. _Safe,_ she thought, shivering against him, though she found it hard to breathe from the force with which he’d crushed her to his chest. The fire in her marked palm spluttered and died as the knowledge that he was alive washed over her.

“Harellan,” he murmured into her hair, and the reverence in his voice broke her heart. His fingertips pressed painfully against her upper arms as he clung to her; it was though he was testing reality, daring it to rip her away from him. “You _are_ here,” he whispered against her shuddering form, relaxing his grip on her by a margin. “I thought I had lost you.”

He had said the same in Redcliffe. It was identical—the same words, the same cadence, the same astonished yearning in his voice. She had been confused then. She was unworthy now. 

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” she wept into the warm plane of his chest, her fingers knotted tightly into the fabric of his tunic, “ _Ir abelas, ir abelas, ir abelas_. It is my fault. I could not save them.” Her voice was choked, breathing ragged as she tried and failed to bite back her sobs, shoulders shaking as they wracked through her small frame.

“ _Ohdea_ , Harellan,” he whispered lowly into her ear, his lips brushing featherlight against the pointed shell as he drew her closer, bringing her head to rest against his chest. “ _Ohdea_ ,” he commanded again, threading his hands into the remnants of her braid and unwinding the silken strands until her hair hung long and loose against her back. He massaged his fingertips in a soothing circle against her scalp, and the sweetness of the gesture destroyed her.

He coaxed her down onto the cot the commander meant to lay her on, and she heard Cullen clear his throat and murmur something to the apostate who had his arms around her and his hands in her hair. She could not hear them from her own, gasping sobs, but she heard the telltale crunch of snow underneath the commander’s heavy gait and knew he’d left them alone.

Solas pulled her fully into his lap and she was so distraught she did not have the good sense to feel ashamed by the childish way she clutched at him. He removed one hand from her hair and rubbed slow, soothing circles along her back, his palm painfully warm as he pressed magic into her, heating her frozen skin from the inside out.

It was agony. She never wanted it to end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ir abelas - i am sorry  
> odhea - breathe
> 
> alright, dear readers! I’d like a bit of help with something, if you don’t mind. I think it’s time to update the work’s summary and tags to reflect overall themes thus far, but I’m having a hard time condensing all this stuff in my brain into something that makes sense. I also don’t want to spoil some of the build up/reveal moments (i.e., Hara’s name) but want people to know about aspects of her personality and the story that are important. If you have any ideas or suggestions for how to make this happen, please let me know!


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> is it too much? you'd tell me if it were too much, right? 
> 
> xx camp

Hara stayed there for the better part of an hour, pressed so intensely against Solas it was as though she wanted to disappear into him entirely. She did attempt to extricate herself from his grasp after a time, after the tears had run out and her cheeks burnt hotly with embarrassment. Solas had simply tightened his grip when she’d tried to shift away, pressing her against the hard plane of his chest.

“Stay,” he’d whispered lowly in her ear, brushing his lips across her temple before encouraging her to tuck her head back underneath his chin. Hara was as elated as she was miserable, and the emotional dichotomy sent her head spinning. Presently, she was breathing in the scent of pine, elfroot, and smoke from the crook of his neck as he continued to radiate warmth into her frozen form.

Hara had almost fallen asleep when she heard the shuffle of armored feet and clamor of voices outside the canvas walls. Her heart clenched inside her chest when she realized—life went on outside the confines of the healer’s tent. A wave of shame washed over her. Hara had neglected to ask after the rest of her companions, overcome as she’d been by seeing Solas alive and well. The gentle care he’d shown her was immensely distracting as well; he had been tender with her during her breakdown in Redcliffe, but his response then was nothing compared to the way he seemed to cling to her now. It seemed as though he took as much comfort in her presence as she did from his. Still, Hara was ashamed that his attention had driven her concern for the others out of her mind. One of her grandfather’s many proverbs bubbled up in her mind. _Guard your heart, da’len, for love makes fools of us all._

“The others?” Hara finally whispered the question into the hollow between his neck and collarbone, her lips brushing against the skin exposed there. She fought back an ill-timed and vastly inappropriate urge to drag her teeth along the edge of his clavicle. “Dorian? Bull? Varric?”

“In tact,” Solas murmured, lips pressed against the top of her head. His fingers were still wound into the nest of her hair, though he shifted strangely underneath her weight as she murmured the question into his skin. It was though he was suddenly undecided as to whether he desired her much closer or much farther away instead.

“I was terrified Dorian was going to kill himself,” Hara mumbled into his neck, squeezing her eyes shut against the painful memory. “He’d been casting madly for _so_ long… Fire and fury and protection for each of us, all at once.”

She remembered as Dorian captured red templars in his flashfire, immolating twisted abomination after twisted abomination, before conjuring a wall of flames that burned between her and the archdemon the Elder One commanded. She’d stared back at Dorian from across the flames, shouted at them to _leave me, save yourselves_ , but felt his barrier wash over her skin for the umpteenth time nevertheless. He was ashen, shaking, drained—barely alive, to be sure—and yet he, Varric, and Bull had still been loath to leave her behind. 

Her heart had swelled with emotion, and she found herself at war between amazement at their loyalty, her deep affection for them, and panic at the very real possibility of their deaths. It was then that her mark had sprung to life and she’d flung a ball of fire in their direction; if they would not heed her words, perhaps they’d heed the godsforsaken magic on her hand. Bull’s eyes had flashed with understanding and he’d gathered Dorian and Varric up into his arms, sprinting madly towards the Chantry as she held the skeletal magister and his dragon at bay.

“It seems I owe him an apology,” Solas whispered into her hair, hands suddenly slack against her scalp. His fingers had stilled where before they’d been mindlessly raveling and unraveling the long strands of her hair into a haphazard braid. 

Hara stiffened against him, dread and curiosity overlain across the planes of her mind. “Meaning?” She finally ventured, though she was not sure she wanted to hear the answer. _What had he done?_

“I was…” Solas began, and his fingers twitched oddly against her scalp, as though he wanted to resume braiding her hair as a panacea against his anxiety about her reaction. He cleared his throat and Hara felt more than heard the rumble of his chest against hers. “I accused him of abandoning you. More specifically, I accused _them_ of abandoning you. I was… less than tactful.”

“Listening isn’t your strong suit, is it, Solas?” Hara muttered bitterly against his chest, leaning away from him to gaze up into his face rather than into the soft wool of his sweater. Hara pressed her hand into the center of his chest and pushed herself up and over him, staring down at him in reproach. She furrowed her brow disapprovingly and he had the good sense to appear chagrined in response. “You heard what I said in the Chantry. I asked them to leave me behind. I couldn’t… I couldn’t bear if they died because of me.” _I am hardly worth it_ , she thought bitterly, though she did not say it aloud.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” Solas murmured as he stared up at her, reaching out a hand out to cup her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the golden branches of her vallaslin. Hara could read the sincerity and remorse in his eyes and almost regretted her chastisement in return. Solas worried at his bottom lip, capturing it between his teeth; his anxious ministrations drew her gaze and Hara found herself suddenly fascinated by the shape of his lips, wondering whether he’d deign to kiss her again now that the panic of Haven had passed to some degree. Considering the situation at hand, it was an absolutely ridiculous thing to be thinking about.

Hara knew that as soon as she left the healer’s tent, she would be beset by worshipful gazes, forced to answer a thousand questions about her encounter with the Elder One, obligated to help the advisors find somewhere, _anywhere_ the Inquisition could begin to rebuild. She felt heat creep into her cheeks in shame. She had no right to stay tucked away in the relative peace of the healer’s tent when there was so much work to be done.

“You are…” Hara started, feeling her face color underneath his palm. She shifted her gaze quickly away from his lips, staring intensely at a point in the distance over his shoulder with sudden interest.

“ _Ahn_ , Harellan?” Solas murmured, a crinkle between his brows as he stared up at her questioningly, fingers curling against her jaw as though he knew she meant to pull away from him. He looked so uncertain, so concerned just then that her heart wrenched.

 _How had this happened? How had she set aside her misery, set aside their losses, so quickly? How could she derive even a single hour of pleasure from his company when she’d seen how few had made it out of Haven? How could he stand to hold her when he’d watched Minaeve draw her last breath in her arms? When she failed to save Seggritt? When she’d been too slow to come to Threnn’s aid?_

Shame washed heavily over her and settled into the recesses her soul. Hara wrapped her disgrace around her like an old friend and resolved to push him away. She did not deserve his comfort. 

Hara cleared her throat and removed her palm from his chest, ignoring the ache building in her chest as she prepared to put the distance back between them. “You are forgiven,” Hara breathed, slowly untangling her arms from around him, sorely missing his heat and warmth in the instant she drew herself away. “Though I am not. I should get to work,” she finished and made to stand from the cot.

An odd swaying sensation overcame her as she drew herself to her feet amid Solas’ protests. His admonishments sounded terribly far away as she made her way toward the front of the tent; it seemed to take an extraordinary amount of effort to put one foot in front of the other. _Where did all this distance come from?_ she wondered as she made her way towards a woman in Chantry robes. Hara idly wondered when Mother Giselle had grown so many heads. She counted four, at least, and each of them were regarding her with an expression of concern and disapproval. Hara took a step toward the Mother, meaning to ask her where she might find the advisors to review the situation at hand. 

Hara opened her mouth to ask the Mothers her question but found she could not force her lips to move. She felt terribly, horribly, achingly cold all over, as though when she’d struggled out of Solas’ arms he’d taken back all the warmth he had poured into her over the past hour. Her teeth began to chatter wildly as she struggled to form a sentence. 

“M-m-m-mother,” Hara began, struggling to bite out the word as all four of Mother Giselle’s faces swam in front of her. Gods, how would she ever finish the rest of this sentence?

She noted the Mothers looking at her with concern; her mouths were moving but she could not make sense of the words. The Giselles waved furiously to someone behind her, and it was only moments before Solas rushed forward to steady Hara’s shaking, fumbling form, muttering words of chastisement in Elvhen she couldn’t understand all the while.

Solas snatched her back against his chest and lifted her into his arms, carrying her back towards the cot she’d left only moments ago, apparently deaf to the weak protests she managed to bite out through chattering teeth. Solas deposited her on the soft surface with an exasperated expression on his face and followed her down onto the cot. He held her at arm’s length with a distinctly unamused look on his face before wrapping her back in a tight embrace. Hara felt the warmth flood blissfully back into her skin and she could not stop herself from snuggling against him, pressing her cold nose into the hollow of his clavicle. Solas seemed to stiffen slightly at the chill of her cartilage against his skin, but rather than move away from the sensation, he simply drew her closer. 

After a long while, Hara felt the rumble of Solas’ chest against hers as he discussed something with someone. The content of the conversation was difficult to determine, muffled as the sounds were as she pressed herself against him. She thought she heard movement around her after a time.

“Harellan,” Solas murmured into her ear. “I must attend to Flissa. I’ve asked Varric to sit with you until I return,” he finished. He slowly pulled away from her, reaching for a stack of blankets someone had set on the cot next to hers.

“She’s alive?” Hara breathed in wonder, amazed that the woman had survived. She remembered her blood pooling thickly over the Iron Bull’s hands as he carried her to safety inside the Chantry. 

“Yes,” Solas confirmed as he swaddled her tightly in two of the woven blankets. “Thanks in large part to no small amount of magic.” He leaned away from her to take in her appearance before grabbing yet another blanket from the stack and bundling it around her legs and feet.

“Thanks in large part to you, then,” Hara said, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile. She had the urge to grasp his hands in thanks, but she doubted he would appreciate her disturbing the cocoon of fabric he’d been carefully winding around her.

Hara saw the tips of Solas’ ears color, seemingly in response to her praise, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he returned her small smile with one of his own.

“I am sure you are exhausted,” Solas said, sidestepping her praise expertly, “But it is imperative you stay awake until your body has reached a suitable temperature. It is far too risky for you to sleep in this state." 

“ _Ven_ , _mamae_ ,” Hara replied, and offered him a grin as he rolled his eyes at her, regarding her as he pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Solas looked at her for a long moment before ultimately clearing his throat and turning to leave. As he exited the tent, he held the flap open for Varric.

The dwarf looked around wild-eyed as he searched about the tent for her. Hara managed to get one arm free from the cocoon of blankets and waved at him, drawing his attention to her cot near the back of the tent. He huffed out a visible breath of air and passed straight through the cloud of his exhalation as he hurried over to her.

“I can hardly see you underneath all that shit,” Varric said in greeting, eyes searching along her pale form with a look of disapproval. 

“I would offer you a blanket, but I think Solas might kill me,” Hara replied in response, a small smile playing on the edges of her lips. She took in a crusted layer of blood underneath his nostrils and remembered Varric had taken a vigorous right-hook from a red templar she’d failed to detect in the mad fight for Haven.  “Are you alright?" 

“Fine, fine,” Varric dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Sparkler and Tiny are fine, too. Well, Sparkler less so, but he's on the mend in the next tent. Suppose Chuckles told you about his, ah… less than warm greeting, eh?”

“He did,” Hara confirmed, gritting her teeth and nodding once in response. “If I recall correctly, he said he was ‘less than tactful.’”

“He was,” Varric grinned. “It would’ve been funny it hadn’t all been so damn serious. I’m not sure what he would have done if you hadn’t come back." 

“Well, as you can see, I have returned to you all in perfect condition,” Hara huffed from underneath the pile of blankets, her teeth threatening to chatter as the cold crept back into her exposed arms and hands.

“If ‘perfect condition’ is a euphemism for ‘practically dead,’ then sure, absolutely,” Varric intoned flatly. “Has Chuckles even fed you?”

“Fed me? I am not a child, Varric. And besides, I am hardly hungry,” Hara replied in exasperation. Her renegade stomach growled loudly in response, an appropriate punctuation for her words of denial. She glared down at her torso. “Traitor,” she muttered.

Varric worried after her like a mother hen after that, clucking instructions irritably at her as he tended her shuddering form in the healer’s tent. She knew it was his worry that made him impatient; Hara was sure she’d never seen the dwarf so fraught as he regarded her small form buried underneath approximately seven blankets. Hara knew he took his duty to keep her awake seriously, was sure Solas had told him how frozen and addled she’d been before he tended her. Who better suited to needle her into wakefulness than he? Hara lost track of the instructions he was giving her after a while, his mouth moving quicker than Bianca’s trigger, rapid-fire as his commands were.

“Here,” he said, shoving an overfull bowl of stew Mother Giselle had handed him into her still-trembling hands. Solas had been able to warm her considerably but her body was still shaking from the cold—and the intensity of the magic he’d pressed into her skin. “Eat this.”

Hara stared at the bowl the dwarf forced upon her with a dejected look upon her face, gazing at the brown mush with a crinkled nose. It looked absolutely revolting and smelled almost as bad, but she supposed beggars could hardly be choosers, stranded in the wilderness of the Frostbacks as they were. She’d eaten worse on many a hungry night in the alienage and resolved herself to having some of whatever it was Varric meant to force down her gullet.

Varric was stared at her expectantly, hand extended as he offered her a spoon. She took it after a long moment with full intentions of scooping out a hearty spoonful, but the effort of moving her arm felt almost monumental. _Gods_ , she was so tired. How in the world did he expect her to lift the spoon? To chew? _What a ridiculous thing to ask of a half-dead, half-frozen person._

“Here, it’ll be easier if you sit up straight,” Varric instructed next, stealing three pillows off a nearby cot and situating them behind her back, fluffing at them fussily until they were arranged to his liking. Hara slumped a bit to the left and he chastised her again. “Think tall, kid, like Vivienne with a stick up her ass.”

Hara managed a smile and blew a faint huff of laughter from her nostrils at the absurdity of a dwarf commanding her to _think tall_ … and the image of Madame Vivienne with a distinctly thorny branch wedged in her posterior. Varric’s face brightened considerably at her response. He grinned encouragingly at her and mimed the motion of spooning stew out of the bowl, as though he were persuading her of the supreme merits of eating.

“I _beg_ your pardon!” came a shrill, distinctly Orlesian admonishment from the opposite side of the tent. It seemed the Lady of Iron was tending to a soldier’s broken arm several cots away, her hands poised gracefully over the man’s appendage as she coaxed Chantry-approved magic into mending his bones.

“Apologies, Your Sanctimoniousness,” Varric hollered at her over his shoulder, not bothering to spare the Lady of Iron a glance of acknowledgement. It seemed he was keen to keep two eyes on Hara as long as he could spare them. He regarded her still-full bowl with pursed lips, looking down on her swaddled form disapprovingly. “Don’t make me force feed you that shit,” Varric threatened gently, shaking a fist at her in teasing admonishment.

Hara took a deep breath and found the energy to roll her eyes. She stuck her spoon into the stew and hefted a truly monstrous portion of the stuff into her mouth. She swallowed before she had time to register the taste. The heat of the liquid burned her throat as she swallowed, but the sensation was not entirely unpleasant; the feeling of being heated from the inside out reminded her of the sensation of Solas’ hands pressing magic into her skin.

Her heart gave a strange wrench as she realized she missed him; it was an entirely absurd thing to be feeling. He couldn’t have been gone for more than an hour, and he’d only left to tend to a woman who teetered on the brink of death thanks to her ineptitude. She chastised herself for her ridiculousness and shoved another spoonful of stew into her mouth. Hara lowered the bowl of soup to rest in her lap and closed her eyes against the warm sensation.

“Don’t close your eyes!” Varric demanded, his voice sharp with worry as he reached for the bowl of stew, grasping it just in time to keep her from upending it into her lap. “You’re not supposed to fall asleep!" 

Hara opened one eye and pursed her lips at his incessant mothering. “I am as awake as can be expected. In fact, I am practically vibrating with energy,” she finished, covering her mouth with the back of one hand as she tried and failed to stifle a yawn.

“Right,” Varric grumbled, “I need reinforcements. I’m getting Buttercup and Hero. If you die before I come back, I swear on Andraste’s frilly knickers… I’ll kill you." 

Hara swallowed hard, unsure if she truly wanted Sera or Blackwall to see her in such a pathetic state. She reached one hand out to Varric and made to protest, but he’d already turned away and hurried out of the tent before she managed to get the words out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ir abelas - I am sorry  
> Ahn - what  
> Ven, mamae - Yes, mother


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi hi! sorry for taking forever to update, y'all. life has been ~*~happening~*~ lately. as always, i appreciate your kudos and comments/feedback so much! 
> 
> xx camp

Less than thirty seconds passed between Varric’s departure and the start of Hara’s anxious ruminations, her mind wandering uneasily to the imminence of Blackwall and Sera’s arrival. The possibility of facing them was nerve-wracking; as much as she wanted to see them hearty and hale (or at the very least, minimally damaged and structurally sound), she dreaded the encounter in equal measure.

She thought about the possibility of their disappointment, their anger, their _heartbreak_ at losing so many in Haven—and the possibility of their wrath at her, the person directly responsible for it all. Hara felt her breath hitch in her throat as she imagined each of their responses.

She thought of how Sera would shame her for failing to save the “little people,” those truly innocent but caught in the tide of death and destruction wrought by Corypheus, the red templars, and the archdemon he commanded. Hara could hear her already, voice hard and angry as she spat accusations at her. _You were supposed to be different! But you just… Just let them die!_

She thought about Blackwall’s face, drawn with disapproval as he considered her failings. Hara had heard him wax poetic about sacrifice and duty on multiple occasions. For gods sake, when she met him he declared that although he was but one man, he intended to “save the fucking world, if pressed”—and she _hadn’t_ been one woman. She’d had a party of three incredibly skilled fighters, the rebel mages, and the Inquisition’s forces at her back. She had failed spectacularly nevertheless. What might he say to her? _You made a promise to protect others... And yet you sacrificed them in your stead._ Yes… In death, sacrifice. She was no Warden, but how could he possibly hold her to a lesser standard?

And if Blackwall and Sera felt this way about her… Well, the others would surely follow suit. Perhaps Varric was merely pretending to care about her; perhaps he was simply too kind to speak plainly, to tell her how her failures disgusted him. Perhaps the heavy mask of pretense had become too much to bear alone and _that_ was his excuse for leaving her in the healer’s tent—seeking out other shoulders to share the burden of her presence.

If he felt this way, Dorian and Bull must, too. She had tried to protect them when the dragonfire came, but only after dragging them through the bloodiest, most gruesome fight of her life, and perhaps _theirs_ as well. For Bull, perhaps not, mercenary captain and Ben-Hassrath spy as he was, but Dorian? Surely he had never found himself in such dire circumstances before he’d hitched his wagon to hers and she’d drug him through a battlefield filled with tainted soldiers and monstrosities corrupted with red lyrium.

And the advisors? Hara felt her gut twist as she thought of Josephine, wide-eyed and trembling as the Elder One’s army bore down on them, of Cullen’s earnest hope that she could buy the people of Haven some time and prevent more death. _How wrong to place their faith in me_ , she thought. They would have to blame her for this.

Her anxious thoughts drug her through a downward spiral and the depth of her self-hatred grew exponentially with each minute that passed. If her companions and the advisors felt this way about her, surely the people of Haven would as well. She was nothing more than a knife ear to which they’d mistakenly affixed their Maker’s “providence.” Hara had gone down in flames and had taken Haven and innumerable innocents with her. _Andraste burns again, indeed_. Now that their worship was so blatantly misplaced… Perhaps they’d lynch her. It wouldn’t be the first time an angry mob of humans had strung up an elf in the name of justice. Hara was as heretical as Shartan after the Exalted March.

Was there anyone who would not hate her for this? Hara could think of only one person. _Solas_ … He had been tender, caring, concerned, a steadfast rock against the tumultuous waves of her emotions. _But was his response truly genuine?_ If it wasn’t, she could hardly blame him. Perhaps he thought it his duty to the Inquisition to ensure she recovered well enough to be put to trial for her negligence, for the loss of life, for the complete and utter destruction of Haven. If his response _was_ genuine… Somehow, that was worse. Hara found she could not exhale the breath from her lungs as a wave of dishonor crashed over her. If she cared for him at all, she would not bring him down with her. His affection was far more than she deserved.

As these thoughts raced through her mind, the burden of her failure grew. Could she stay here, given everything she had done? Everything she had failed to do? Even if they did not express their resentment towards her outright, how could she possibly expect the Inquisition to bear her presence from this point on? It would be difficult for them to heal, to move past this defeat, to begin to rebuild the Inquisition from Haven’s ashes with her still here. Though she had not felt like part of a _family_ for years, she would have to give them up. It would be kinder to disappear quietly into the night.

 _Still_ , she argued with herself. _It would be difficult to slip out undetected_. Hara wrinkled her nose in disgust as soon as the thought crossed her mind. It was a weak, self-serving, cowardly excuse; difficult did not mean impossible. She resolved to rid them of her presence.

It was only a matter of time before Varric returned—if he returned—and so she was determined to move quickly. She would not abide any weakness in herself this time and willed her limbs to remain steady. Hara forced herself out from underneath the mass of blankets Solas had carefully wrapped around her form and clenched her jaw against the cold.

Hara elected to wrap one of the blankets around her shoulders and head as a makeshift cloak; it would serve as a buffer against the icy winds and double as a disguise. Hara looked quickly about for supplies; she had her hunting knife, but no other weapons with which to defend herselfin the wilderness. She had lost her axe after she’d brought down the mountain to cover the escape from Haven, but someone had left a rather rusty longsword propped against a cot near hers. Hara said a silent apology to the soldier it belonged to—living or dead—and wrapped her fingers around the hilt, testing its weight in her hand. She was pleased to note her hands had stopped shaking so intensely; the motion had been reduced to a minor tremor instead.

Sword in hand, Hara’s took stock of the situation in the healer’s tent. She observed Mother Giselle and Madame Vivienne with their heads together in quiet consultation over an ashen-faced soldier several cots away. With their backs turned, it was difficult to hear the conversation, but the situation seemed grave judging by their hushed tones. Even from this distance, Hara could tell the soldier’s leg would likely need to be amputated and, judging by the knit of his brows, he was not keen to lose the limb.

Her eyes wandered next to the exit. _Mercifully clear_. It was the perfect time to abscond, occupied as the Mother and the First Enchanter were. Hara quickly adjusted the blanket, careful the signature strawberry blonde of her hair was not visible underneath the dark grey of the makeshift hood. She tightened her grip on the borrowed sword and strode towards the exit with feigned purpose, her back held straight even as she ducked her head in an effort to hide her face.

Hara felt a pang of loneliness in her heart as she remembered Varric’s chastisement to _think tall_ as she worked to keep her spine rigid, to appear as though she were simply a scout on a mission, someone following orders to retrieve something beyond the tent’s walls _._ When she reached the exit, she heard raised voices, a masculine tone clearly audible amongst the din, harsh and critical as it was. Hara carefully peeked outside the tent’s flap, not keen to walk through an argument in her efforts to leave the camp undetected.

“What would you have me do?!” _Cullen_. The commander had his back to the tent and was gesturing wildly about as he shouted the question at someone. He was angrier and more uncertain than she’d ever heard him. Or _seen_ him, for that matter, as she noted the tense line of his shoulders, easily discernible even underneath the ridiculous feathered pauldrons he wore. Hara hoped he was not arguing with someone about what they might do with _her_ … Though she had to admit, if she were a citizen of Haven, she’d be calling for her head, too.

“We cannot simply ignore this! We must find a way!” _Cassandra_. Hara could not see the Seeker, but she could hear her. _Find a way to do what?_ _Had the Seeker come to her defense?_ Perhaps she was encouraging Cullen to find a way to forgive her ineptitude, as though her attempt to save Haven and her willingness to sacrifice herself for their escape was worth something. When compared with the lives they’d lost, it was a poor exchange indeed.

“And who put you in charge?!” Spat the commander, his arms raised again for emphasis. “We need a consensus or we have nothing!” Though Hara balked at his tone, she agreed with his sentiment. If they intended to punish her for her failures, the decision—and the method—would have to be unanimous.

“Please, we must use reason!” _Josephine_. “Without the infrastructure of the Inquisition, we are hobbled!” _Oh._ Hara felt her cheeks redden and the tips of her ears color as she realized her irrationality, her foolishness. How self-involved to think this conversation was about _her_ rather than about Haven’s refugees; how stupid to think they’d concern themselves with her fate with the Inquisition’s need to rebuild hanging over their heads.

“That can’t come from nowhere!” The commander again. While he had a point, there was no reason to respond to Josephine’s assertions with such harshness. Hara knew they were all stretched thin, exhausted from their escape and the urgency of the situation, but Cullen’s ire was certainly not helping anything. Perhaps he felt some sense of personal responsibility for their losses and had turned his anger at himself outward; Hara could certainly relate to that.

“She didn’t say it could!” A fourth voice hissed. _Leliana_. She sounded furious as she protected the Antivan from the commander’s criticism.

“Enough!” _Cassandra_. She roared the command, her patience obviously thin. “This is getting us nowhere!”

“Well, we’re agreed on that much,” came Cullen’s sarcastic reply.

Hara wondered how long they had been arguing to snipe at one another so openly; though the advisors were no strangers to disagreements, their conversations rarely bordered on the realm of disrespect. A different but no-less-powerful wave of guilt washed over her; _if she left them now, would they resent her even more for leaving them to clean up this mess alone? A mess she had caused, no less?_

Hara pressed her lips into a thin line and resolved to join them, determined to offer any assistance she possibly could to help them sort through this. Hara extended one hand to open the flap of the healer’s tent but froze just as her fingertips brushed the canvas wall, curling her hand into a fist as more uncertainty grew in her heart. _What if she made it worse?_ What if they argued tenfold when she emerged, now forced to deal with the decision of what to do with _her_ rather than how to help the Inquisition rebuild? As if that itself were not daunting enough…

“Herald,” came a soft Orlesian voice. “You should be resting.” _Mother Giselle._ Hara stiffened considerably, her spine so rigid even Madame de Fer might envy her posture in that moment. Had she really been standing there, stupid and immobile, eavesdropping rather than making a hasty retreat as she had planned? _Typical Harellan_ , she thought, her irritation with herself growing tenfold.

Hara re-extended her hand suddenly, keen to leave the tent even if it meant thrusting herself headfirst into an argument between the advisors in the process. She tried to force her feet to move, but it was too late. The Mother came to rest one hand upon her shoulder, her grasp gentle yet simultaneously firm despite her age. Hara felt a bit like a child who had been caught sneaking out after bedtime, taking the covers with her all-the-while.

She turned to face Mother Giselle slowly, looking up at her from underneath the makeshift hood of the blanket she’d repurposed as a cloak. The Mother gazed back down at her, face serious as her brown eyes searched Hara’s, lips a thin line: her expression was disapproving and yet sympathetic, a perfect dichotomy. A long moment passed between them.

“Rest is the last thing I deserve, Mother,” Hara finally replied, her eyes wandering again to the tense planes of Cullen’s back. “I should be out there with them. Something has to be done.” _For them. About me._

“You have helped enough. It is for them to decide now,” Giselle answered, tightening her grip on Hara’s shoulder by a margin. “I doubt another heated voice will help—even _yours_. Perhaps _especially_ yours. They have the luxury of arguing, thanks to you. The enemy could not follow and with time to doubt, we turn to blame.”

“They should be blaming _me_ , not _themselves_ ,” Hara spat, unable to keep the venom from her voice. She clenched her marked hand into a fist and remembered the _agony_ she’d felt when the Elder One had attempted to reclaim the magic from her. He had accused her of stealing its purpose, of spoiling it with her stumbling, of _changing_ it with her filthy elven blood. _The_ _Anchor_ , he’d called it. _Apt_ , she’d thought later as shewandered blindly, burning through the darkness in search of them. It was a weight. It would drown her in the end.

“Perhaps it will be your destiny to bear scorn in the end,” Giselle replied after a time, her expression resolved while strangely curious. “Andraste herself was burned at the pyre, you know. But we cannot afford this infighting, Herald. It may threaten us as much as this Corypheus.”

“Do we know where Corypheus and his forces are?” Harellan wondered aloud, disconcerted that she hadn’t asked the question before. _Another failing._ She had yet to relay the information she’d gathered from that _abomination_ during their encounter in Haven as well. His claim to have entered the Golden City… His insistence that the seat of the Maker had been empty… His _orb_. She and Solas had been right as they speculated by firelight about the origins of whatever had created the Breach all those months ago. It was clearly ancient, terrifying in its power as he clutched it in his deformed, clawed hand. Something in it had _sung_ to her as he’d attempted to use its power to reclaim the Anchor. She felt the magic in her hand _reach_ for it, as though it _wanted_ to be reunited with the orb.

“We are not sure where _we_ are… Which may be why, despite the numbers he still commands, there has been no sign of him. That, or you are believed dead,” Mother Giselle postulated. “Or without Haven we are thought helpless… Or he girds for another attack. I cannot claim to know the mind of that creature, only his effect on us. Either way… The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear, and the more our trials seem ordained.”

“Mother, I am not what you think. My… _help…_ just hurts,” Hara said angrily, her hands forming hard fists at her side, nails pressing a pattern of crescent moons into her palms. 

“Herald… The people know what they saw,” Giselle reasoned. “Or… perhaps what they _needed_ to see. The Maker works both in the moment and in how it is remembered. Can we truly know the heavens are not with us?”

 _Yes_ , Hara wanted to say, _We_ are alone _. I_ am alone. She felt the desertion in her very bones. She had never felt so alone in her life; it was worse than when she’d seen Solas and the others sacrifice themselves in Alexius’ false future, worse even than when her grandfather had died and left her truly alone in this world. Hara hadn’t loved anyone or anything so deeply since before his passing—not that she was forthcoming with her affections, per se—but she’d never cared about a _group_ of people like this before, had never expected to lose what felt like an entire _family_. This pitiful feeling was sickening. She hated herself for it.

She kept it to herself.

“I cannot see how what I believe matters, Mother. Corypheus is a real, physical threat. We can’t match that with hope alone. We have to _do_ something. _I_ have to do something,” Hara finally responded, pushing open the flap of the tent with the intention of finally joining the advisors.

The Mother followed her outside; Hara could hear the swish of her Chantry robes as they dragged along the snow-covered ground, followed by a deep inhale. Hara wondered if she were about to be scolded and pressed her lips into a thin line, steeling herself for the chastisement. Instead, the Mother began to sing.

“Shadows fall and hope has fled.

Steel your heart, the dawn will come.

The night is long and the path is dark,

Look to the sky and one day soon

The dawn will come.”

Hara felt sweat begin to bead at her temples as she heard other voices begin to join the Mother’s mezzo-soprano. Leliana’s high, clear voice rang out, followed by Cullen’s baritone. A chorus of soldiers began to sing as well, quickly and enthusiastically joined by refugees from Haven. Hara could barely hear the words over the panic rising in her chest; their response was nothing short of terrifying. She would rather face Corypheus than the sea of worshipful faces staring at her in adoration. Though they had finished the hymn, the mass of people continued to gaze at her in expectation and now she truly could not breathe, overcome as she was with the urge to flee.

Mother Giselle placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, as though she sensed Hara’s panic. “An army needs more than an enemy, Herald. It needs a cause.”

Hara simply stared at her wide-eyed in response and tightened her grip on the sword in her right hand, clenching her marked hand behind her back in an attempt to control the tremors that had returned with a vengeance.

* * *

Solas should not have been pleased with her response, terrified as he knew she was in that moment, but he could not help himself from finding satisfaction in the knowledge that their “Herald” could not bear their worship. It would keep Harellan grounded where others would become drunk with power, intoxicated by the reverence and adoration of the masses.

Solas was pulled towards her, the tips of his fingers brushing her blanketed shoulder before he’d registered that his feet were moving. Harellan jumped and dropped the longsword clutched in her hand, startled by the sudden contact as she turned away from the Chantry mother to face him.

“A word?” Solas requested, fighting back a smile at the relief that washed across her features.

“You can have as many as you want if you’ll get me away from here,” Harellan whispered, her marked hand flexing strangely, as though she had only just stopped herself from reaching for him.

The action was at once heartwarming and strangely disappointing. Solas forced his feet to move, leading her through the makeshift camp and down a path a short distance further to where a torch marked the perimeter of the camp. Solas waved a hand, calling forth veilfire to afford them a little more light, and his heart leapt stupidly at the expression of wonder on her face when he turned to face her again.

“The humans have not raised one of our People so high for ages beyond counting,” Solas began, watching her expression closely.

Harellan captured her bottom lip between her teeth as was her anxious habit; he forced his eyes from her mouth. “The higher one climbs, the harder one falls,” she murmured, worrying her marked palm with the fingertips of her right hand.

Solas’ lips quirked into something like a bastardization of a smile. He struggled to keep his tone easy, biting back his bitterness with effort. “Indeed,” he agreed. “Her faith is hard-won.”

“Forget faith. Solas, I need to tell you about Corypheus,” Harellan rushed, closing the distance between them, hands searching blindly forhis; it was as though she could not stop herself from reaching for him, from tethering herself to him as a salve against her panic.

Solas allowed her to take his hands in hers and told himself it was simply to encourage her to share the information. He waited impatiently for whatever was to come, schooling his features into one of interest to reign in the tumultuous waves of emotion roiling beneath the surface of his skin. _Had she seen his orb?_

“He carries something,” Harellan began. “An _orb_. It is as we thought. Do you remember our conversation in the Hinterlands? I know it was ages ago, but…” she trailed off, looking up at him expectantly.

Solas struggled to keep his face impassive as he reigned in the hope in his heart. Of course he remembered. _Solas_ , she’d said, one of the first times she had called him by his name. _What do you think created the Breach?_ He was surprised at her question, pleasantly so. _An artifact of immense magical power_ , he’d responded. Then she’d speculated about its origins, sure that whatever it was had been ancient. Her insight was astonishing, especially given her limited exposure to magic.

“I do,” Solas responded, tone even and low, “And if it is as you say… I believe it is ours.”

“Ours?” Harellan asked, brow furrowed as she took in this information. Solas watched the gears turn in her mind before an expression of horror blossomed across her face. She released his hands and began to gather the strands of her long, straight hair together, mindlessly winding it into a haphazard braid as she fretfully considered the implications. “Of course… Ancient Elvhen. Tevinter must’ve picked it from the bones of our ancestors. _Vultures_ ,” she spat, her voice hard and bitter as she pulled roughly at her hair.

Solas was perplexed by her response. She did not claim the Dalish, did not believe in the Creators, so where had this intensity of emotion, this defense of the past come from? He filed this away for additional exploration at a later date. 

“Yes,” Solas confirmed, “Corypheus must have used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking its power must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.” Solas infused layers of uncertainty into his voice, hand rubbing at his chin in speculation; he hoped it was not too much.

“He claims to have entered the Fade and stormed the Golden City eons ago,” Harellan muttered, “He is ancient if it is true. How could he have survived this long? And how could he have lived through the explosion?” She was yanking her hair roughly into the braid she called a ‘fishtail’ with such alacrity she was liable to rip her hair out by the roots if she continued.

“I do not know,” Solas replied, and he could not stop himself from reaching for her hands. He coaxed her to release the mass of hair she had fisted between her fingers and was relieved when she relinquished her hold. “But we must find out how he survived… And we must prepare for their reaction when they learn the orb is of our People.”

“Tell me what you know about it,” Harellan requested, her bottom lip back between her teeth as she stared up at him in anticipation. He was simultaneously pleased at her curiosity and concerned he might reveal too much.

“Such things were foci, said to channel power from the gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of the Elvhen pantheon,” Solas said slowly, choosing his words with caution. “All that remain are references in ruins, and faint visions of memories in the Fade, echoes of a dead empire. But however Corypheus came to it, the orb _is_ Elvhen, and with it, he threatens the heart of human faith.”

“Human faith,” Harellan muttered, her voice hard and bitter as she stared at her feet, glaring at the cracked leather of her boots. “How fickle. Even if the orb _wasn’t_ Elvhen in origin, they would find a way to blame us eventually.”

“I suspect you are correct,” Solas replied, bitterness creeping into his voice as well. “It is unfortunate, but we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies. Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow…”

Solas was hesitant to bring Tarasyl’an Tel’as to the Inquisition’s attention. Though ownership of his fortress had changed hands innumerable times, he would likely need—and sorely miss—the stronghold in the years to come. It seemed only right to take down the Veil in the same place he’d created it thousands of years ago. Even so, it was now the Inquisition’s best and perhaps only hope of survival. He resolved himself to push forward before he changed his mind and his pride became the cause of yet more death.

“By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it,” Solas continued, his blue eyes locked with her amber orbs. “Scout to the north. Be their guide. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build… Can grow.”

“Where?” Harellan whispered the question, staring up at him expectantly. She looked so beautiful just then, her eyes shining in the dim light of veilfire. “Please, Solas, if there is a place… I cannot leave them out here. I have been the cause of too much death. Help me prevent it instead,” she pleaded. Her compassion—and the easiness with which she accepted responsibility for people who she knew would scorn her in the end—was like a knife in his heart.

He would give her his fortress.

She had already taken his heart.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi hi, y'all! I am almost done teaching this summer (for about a week, anyway), so I'm hopeful I'll have more time to write since I won't be inundated with grading and myriad other things that tear my focus away from this. :) 
> 
> as always, I am 100000% thrilled when you leave kudos or comments! they give me life. 
> 
> xx camp 
> 
> PS - as always, Elvhen translations at end.  
> PPS - next chapter is ~*~fully NSFW~*~

Hara was pensive as she and Solas made their way back to camp with the intention of meeting with the advisors. She needed to relay what she’d shared with Solas about Corypheus along with the information he’d given her about an abandoned fortress approximately a week’s journey from their location that he had “discovered in the Fade.”

There was something about the lines of his mouth and the look in his eyes as he described the fortress—as though he were looking _through_ her rather than _at_ her as he waxed poetic about the ancient place—that gave her the feeling it was a half-truth, if not a whole lie.

She walked alongside him in silence, head swimming with thoughts of the apostate next to her and the knowledge he’d (allegedly) gleaned from the Fade about a grand fortress high in the Frostback Mountains, lost to time and unbeknownst to many—save handsome, talented Fade experts with a nasty habit of prevarication, that is.

 _Tarsyl’an Tel’a_ s, Solas had called it, his tone almost reverent. _Poetic_ , Hara replied when he murmured its name, _Why did you name it such a thing_? Solas wrestled back a look of disquiet and replaced it with his prototypically academician facade; Hara had the suspicion it was his favored expression when she’d said or asked something he’d rather not discuss.

 _The Fereldan warlords who claimed it centuries ago christened it Skyhold. I simply prefer its Elvhen designation._ It was an answer to a question she had not asked in lieu of a response to the one she had, and Hara had to bite her tongue to stop herself from accusing him of being deliberately evasive.

It was hardly the time to hash through her suspicions, frozen and stranded as the refugees from Haven were; truthfully, the information was welcome no matter how he’d come by it. _A conversation for another time,_ she told herself, a strange sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she considered how she’d manage to develop feelings for a man she knew a thimble’s worth of information about. _Come, da’len_ , her grandfather would scold, and she could see his lips pursed in disapproval, though his bright blue eyes would twinkle with amusement even as he chastised her.  _What did I tell you about love and fools?_

 _Love and fools_ , Hara pondered, allowing her gaze to shift to the man next to her subtly. He walked alongside her in silence, feet ghosting along the snow and a furrow prominent between his brows, as though he were weighing the implications of something she could not even begin to understand. _No_ , Hara reasoned with herself.  _It could hardly be love,_ she mentally scoffed, _Two kisses do not a bond make_. The strange twinge her heart was a rebuttal in and of itself. Hara resolved herself to review every reason it was impossible and, even if it were not, it would be vastly unwise.

 _You hardly know him,_ she began. It was first and foremost atop the list of reasons to reign in her fool heart.

Her mind swam with images of Solas, snippets of memories upon which she'd built the foundation of her feelings for him.  _Fingertips brushing against her calves as he wrapped her feet. His fingers laced with hers in the center of Val Royeaux. Cards held elegantly between his fingers, a wolfish grin on his face. His willingness to say her name, her_  real _name. The feeling of his hands in her hair as he braided it into a crown around her head. His compassion in Redcliffe, and a tonic for dreamless sleep he’d pressed into her palm for the nightmares that followed. His unwillingness to let her face Corpyheus and his archdemon without him, and the passionate kiss they’d shared as she left to face him._ And last… _I thought I had lost you_.

 _Fuck_ , she cursed silently, and her heart leapt stupidly as her eyes wandered across Solas’ profile. She took in the strength of his jaw, the cleft of his chin, the faint scar over one brow she was strangely fond of, the elegant, tapered point of his ear. It _was_ love.

 _But you are at war!_ Hara reasoned, trying to reign in her fool heart with logic as she forced her gaze back to the path in front of them. She owed her life to the Inquisition and had incurred a debt in Haven she could never repay. She had slain innocents with her negligence and was in the unique position to heal rifts with the thrice bedamned magic on her hand. She hardly had time to waste on something as self-serving as her own happiness.

 _And you are a disease_ , Hara finished, a chill running down her spine as she remembered words a demon of despair had murmured to her in the Hinterlands eons ago as it masqueraded in her grandfather’s face. _You are a thing that does not belong, and everything you love turns to ash._

This, in and of itself, was enough. Hara could not ask anyone to bear the burden of her love. She’d found _friends_ again for the first time in years, felt like she belonged to a _family_ after what felt like eons as an outsider. She had lived with Clan Lavellan so long as a bothersome addition, something to be tolerated at best and reviled for her strangeness at worst.  _How dare she ask for more?_

Hara had been so lost in thought that she looked straight through the dwarf as she and Solas crested the hill on their return to camp; she was so startled by his forceful chastisement that she jumped a foot in the air in her surprise.

“Where in the name of Andraste’s _frilly_ knickers did you go?!” Varric bellowed, a scowl on his face as he placed himself squarely between her and the nearby healer’s tent, hands on his hips in an almost matronly fashion as he glowered at her; he cut a thoroughly amusing image and Hara bit her lip harshly to stop herself from laughing at him.

It seemed the dwarf had intended to return to her after all and as promised, he had Sera and Blackwall in tow. Sera’s oddly cut hair was strangely singed on one side and Blackwall appeared more haggard than she’d ever seen him before, but mercifully it seemed they were otherwise in tact.

“Glad to see you both alive,” Hara answered in greeting, the relief at seeing their faces palpable even as anxiety about their reception bloomed in her chest. All three of them were looking at her and Solas with varying degrees of concern, relief, and irritation.

Sera had a stormy look on her face—she managed to look completely livid at the same time her eyes betrayed her disquiet, glassy with tears as they were, and her bottom lip was threatening to tremble. Blackwall had a hard look on his face, as though he were determined to show as little emotion as possible, but the furrow between his brows and the thin line his mouth made as his pursed his lips together and searched her face belied his solicitude.

“Same to you, Lady Herald,” Blackwall finally responded, his voice low, as though he was afraid to speak above a hushed whisper lest he disturb the soldiers and civilians recovering within the healer’s tent. “And you as well, Solas,” he finished, inclining his head in the apostate’s direction.

“Call me anything but that, please,” Hara begged, nose wrinkled as she thought about the worshipful gazes she’d received when Cullen had dragged her half-dead, partially aflame form back to camp and again when they’d joined their voices with Mother Giselle’s in a Chantry hymn and _sung_ to her; it had been so terrifyingly disconcerting that she had wished a chasm would form in the earth to swallow her up. The rush of relief she felt when Solas placed his hand on her shoulder and drew her away from the crowd had been borderline intoxicating. _For more reasons than one_ , she thought irritably to herself. _Love_. _Ridiculous._

 “Going to call you Stupid from now on then,” Sera snapped. Her response was punctuated with a loud, watery sniff and she took hold of her bottom lip between her teeth in an effort to stop the offending flesh from trembling. “On account of you’re  _right stupid_ for scaring me.”

Hara held her hands out to the archer, palms up in the universal gesture for _I come in peace_. “Sorry for stupid,” Hara apologized, even as she fought back a grin at Sera’s strange and minutely offensive show of affection. “I’ll be more diligent in my efforts to avoid potentially dying at the hands of an ancient magister and his archdeom before disappearing into a blizzard.”

“See that you do,” Solas added as he came to stand beside Hara and the archer; his tone was flat and serious as he looked down at her, though the corners of his mouth were quirked in an almost-smile. _Was he… teasing her_?

Sera gaped at Solas in open-mouthed confusion; it was surely the first time they’d ever agreed on anything and it seemed to have stunned her into silence. Hara figured she ought to take the opportunity to ask about the advisors whereabouts lest Sera’s ears begin to emit steam with the effort of processing an encounter with Solas that was not torturously negative in one sense or another.

“Where can I find the advisors?” Hara asked to no one in particular, though she was sure Varric would be aware of their location given his penchant for monitoring others’ whereabouts.

“You’ll find the Seeker and the Spymaster four tents down,” Varric responded easily. “Curly’s in the mess across camp, though I’ll wager he’ll rejoin them soon. I believe Josephine’s turned in for the night.”

Of course he’d be aware of where (and when) everyone convened, ate, and slept. Hara would normally call a spade a spade and tease him for being a busybody, but she did not have the energy to needle him and besides, she really was grateful for the information.

“Thanks, Varric,” Hara responded and clapped him on the shoulder affectionately.

Her eyes wandered to the tent the dwarf had gestured to and thought about the reception she might receive upon entering. She less nervous about seeing the others in light of Sera and Blackwall’s generally warm response, but something about the way they’d looked at her as they joined their voices in song with Mother Giselle turned her stomach.  _The higher one climbs, the harder one falls_ , she thought, words she'd spoken in her private conversation with Solas moments before bubbling back up in her mind. 

Hara took a deep breath and turned towards the tent, preparing herself for whatever response might come as she told them of Corypheus and his plans to assault the very heavens with an ancient Elvhen artifact of immeasurable power. Perhaps it was best that Josephine had retired… Leliana would find a way to convey the essence of the situation with sensitivity in the light of day.

That last part, she planned to omit until she could gauge their response; she hadn’t consulted with Solas about her plans for deception, but she doubted he would take issue with her decision. What would she possibly say? _Oh yes, and by the way, my ancestors are ultimately responsible for creating the godsforsaken magic this power mad abomination relies upon._ No, she intended to keep her trap shut, and she was sure he’d do the same. Solas was unlikely to volunteer information about _himself_ , much less information about whatever ancient Elvhen being could have possibly crafted a magical object so powerful it could tear down the Veil.  

At any rate, a lie by omission seemed safer than outright admitting that an immensely powerful artifact created by their ancestors was responsible for the creation of the Breach. The thought of deception made her nervous, unsuited to duplicity as she was, but she refused to go from “Andraste’s reincarnation” to “imprisoned Dalish savage” in the span of twenty-four hours. More importantly, she would not allow them to cast suspicion on him by proxy.

Hara took a deep breath, spun on her heel, and forced herself to place one foot in front of the other on the path to the advisors’ tent. She stopped abruptly once she realized she was making the journey alone. Hara turned to face Solas; he had not moved from his place beside the healer’s tent and wore a conflicted expression on his face.

“Coming, Solas?” Hara prompted, confused as to why he was not following her. _What might he be thinking that gave him such pause?_ She would give anything to peer inside his mind for but an instant.

“I should return to the wounded,” Solas replied in response, and Hara found herself weighing the admission. Of course, he was needed in the healer’s tent, but it almost seemed a convenient excuse to avoid explaining how he’d stumbled upon Skyhold in dreams to a group of desperately irritable and borderline frozen humans. If she’d found his story flimsy, surely Leliana would lambaste his explanation. When she thought about it that way, Hara could hardly blame him.

“Yes, of course,” Hara responded, offering up a small smile. He returned it with one of his own before disappearing inside the healer’s tent, and she found herself missing him as soon as the canvas flap had hidden him from view.

 _Vin, papae,_ she thought, as her grandfather’s image bubbled up in her memory once more, irritation and amusement warring for dominance of her emotions.

_Love and fools, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarsyl’an Tel’as - the place where the sky was held back  
> da'len - child  
> Vin, papae - yes, father


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kiss, kiss, fall in love.

Hara hashed through her conversation with the advisors a dozen times in their preparations to break camp and journey toward Skyhold. She thought about it as she assisted Adan in packing his medicinals, as she helped transfer the most severely wounded refugees to the beds of wagons, as she and a bandaged Iron Bull patiently arranged a fussy Dorian in his _personal_ wagon, and again as she trudged upwards into the Frostbacks alongside Solas at first light the following morning.

Even as he guided her in the appropriate direction, she was lost in thoughts of their responses. As expected, her meeting with the advisors had been characterized by a myriad of emotions. Shock and outrage at Corypheus’ claims and twisted goals, suspicion at the _stolen magic_ on her marked palm, and finally, a rush of relief at the knowledge they were less than a fortnight’s travel from a massive fortress, lost to time and yet reasonably in tact—all according to knowledge obtained by their resident Fade expert.

Their suspicion at her _stolen magic_ made her thrice grateful she’d resolved herself to a lie of omission beforehand. Mythal, Maker, Andraste—fuck, _Dumat_ help her if they knew the orb Corypheus had used to create the Breach was Elvhen in origin. They would flay her alive. They would flay _him_ alive, or else requisition them all to a frosty death in the Frostbacks simply because their salvation came with pointed ears.

As expected, the Spymaster pressed Hara for more information about the fortress. _Exactly when had Solas had time to access the Fade to ascertain its location amidst his flurry of duties in the healer’s tent?_ Hara had blushed in what she hoped was a pretty, unassuming manner at the mention of the healer’s tent. The Nightingale’s eyebrows raised in a sly, almost suggestive expression and one corner of her mouth twitched into a deliberate, subtle almost-smile.

Hara simply deferred to Solas’ knowledge and claimed ignorance of matters of the Fade. Leliana hardly needed to know she was as suspicious of Solas’ explanation as she. Hara looked up at the Spymaster from underneath dark lashes and willed a more intense flush to her cheeks; she hoped it read like she was embarrassed that the advisors knew about their— _ah, rather warm reception_ , teased Cassandra, her voice low, eyes twinkling with mischief. The Commander simply rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and stared intensely at the map of Thedas they’d miraculously salvaged from the War Room. Of course, Cullen would’ve said something. Hara could hardly fault him and, now that she needed an excuse to claim ignorance and beg off discussing Solas and his somewhat flimsy explanations, perhaps her reticence to discuss his knowledge could be written off as simple sheepishness about their intimacy.

It was a half-truth, if not a whole lie. Hara wondered if she were perhaps becoming more proficient in the art of duplicity the longer she surrounded herself with professional liars, cheaters, and tale-tellers like Tethras and the Iron Bull. She’d have to buy them both a drink later. _Something warm_ , she thought, as snow seeped in through the shoddy, cracked leather of her boots. Solas led her—led them _all_ —high into the Frostbacks for several hours that day; they rarely stopped to rest and before long, the moons were beginning to creep into the horizon and it was time to make camp after their first day of travel.

They’d given the Reincarnation of Andraste her own private tent, of course. It was miserably embarrassing and miserably miserable, and Hara hated the solitude hanging thickly around her within the canvas walls. Solas and Varric had set up a tent next to hers, as had Madame Vivienne and Cassandra. The others were stationed somewhere nearby, but in her dead-tired state, she hadn’t registered where they’d gone to.

In the solitude of her tent, Hara found herself missing Cassandra’s quiet, serious presence; she would’ve even settled for Sera’s vigorous snoring, her personality loud and evident even in her slumber. Hara found herself sorely wishing for a drought of the dreamless tonic Solas had produced for her in Haven, but she had left it in her cabin the morning she closed the Breach… along with his foot wraps, and now they—and everything she’d ever owned —were buried underneath ice and snow and rock. The tonic she would do without, but she found herself worrying at her lower lip as she considered Solas’ response to the loss of the wraps he’d lent her.

 _Loss_. So much lost in Haven, and possessions were the least of them. She shut her eyes tightly as images of the Inquisition’s people flooded through her consciousness. So many innocents slaughtered by Corypheus and his forces. She inhaled deeply and forced the breath out slowly through her teeth, willing herself not to cry as she imagined their air filled with the scent of blood, fire, and the sounds of fearful screams. Her stomach twisted as she thought of what she might encounter in the Fade that night. She’d been putting off sleep for as long as possible but she was beginning to have difficulty keeping her eyes open.

Hara had no idea how many hours she’d been awake at this point but figured it had been at least three days since she’d had any meaningful amount of sleep. She’d awoken unconscious in the tunnels beneath Haven two days prior, but whatever time had passed between her escape and the beginnings of her slog towards the Inquisition’s camp had hardly been restful. She had almost fallen asleep one or twice in the healer’s tent when she returned, but Solas had declared her temperature far too low to fall asleep safely. After she’d shared the information about Skyhold with the advisors, well, there was simply too much to be done to waste time sleeping.

The longer she spent considering it, the more evident it became that she was in the Fade. Hara was, in fact, asleep before she’d known it.

She had barely realized it before the demons ascended on her: Rage, Despair, Envy. Rage accused her of sacrificing others to save herself before quickly arguing that if only she let him in, he would allow her to bring death and destruction down upon Corypheus the likes of which Thedas had never seen. It was difficult to say no. Hara managed in the end. Next, Despair whispered to her of her failures, pressed its mouth against her own and breathed the names of every soldier, every civilian, every man and woman lost to them in Haven down her throat and into the recesses of her soul. It was painful. It was nothing she hadn’t struggled through before.

Strangely, it was Envy that nearly broke her. He whispered to her of the possibilities of anonymity, of becoming just another filthy knife-ear among the worshipful gazes of humanity. When that did not work, Envy told her that he could remove her vallsalin, dock her ears, make her another nobody in a sea of Inquisition soldiers so she might die at the hands of this cause without claiming a martyrdom she did not want nor deserve. Hara wrestled with him for what felt like hours and, when he claimed her grandfather would be happier if she died a nobody rather than a false prophet—nay, a false _reincarnation_ —of a human woman burned upon a pyre—she almost accepted. It had been a close thing, and if it were not for the sharp, lonely howling of a distant wolf, she might have been lost to Envy forever.

Hara awoke covered in a sheen of sweat, could feel the rawness of her throat and knew she’d been screaming aloud in the waking world as she shouted at the Envy demon in her sleep. Her face was wet with tears and her shame grew tenfold: it was as it had been when Despair had set upon her in the Hinterlands and she’d been humiliated in front of Cassandra, Varric, and Solas. Only this time, the whole of the Inquisition’s camp had a front row seat to her nightmares. Who had woken her that time? Ah… Solas. Her cheeks colored through the damp of her tears as she remembered clocking him sharply across the jaw in the throes of her nightmare.

She wished sorely for him in that lonely moment, and as though he’d heard her earnest thoughts, he poked his head inside her tent, bleary-eyed and clearly concerned.

“What are you doing in here?” Hara whispered loudly as she passed the back of her hand across her eyes in an effort to hide her tears. She pulled her rough woolen blanket up to hide the tattered, holy, and enormous tunic she wore to bed.

“I felt you in the Fade,” Solas responded, his voice thick with sleep, his concern still evident through the bleariness of the gaze he’d affixed her with. “Harellan, are you alright?”

There was something about hearing her name that broke her. Hara clamped her lower lip between her teeth harshly and willed herself not to cry. She failed miserably and the tenderness in his expression made it all the worse; she wiped at the fresh tears on her face vigorously and tried to find her voice to reassure him that she was, in fact, fine and he could, in fact, leave her be.

“May I?” Solas whispered even as pushed his way into her tent. He cupped her face in his hands, his fingertips brushing along the sensitive skin behind her ears before she’d registered he was reaching for her—and before he’d given her time to accept or reject his closeness. She could not breathe and so simply nodded in response, willing herself to stop more fat, hot tears from escaping her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.

The saltwater came anyway, and her tears drew a concerned furrow between Solas’ brows. He brushed the pads of his thumbs underneath her watery eyes and the tears were gone as quickly as they’d come, all evidence of their existence erased by his small but immeasurably tender gesture.

“ _Ir_ _abelas_ ,” Hara muttered, feeling her cheeks color with embarrassment and the raw intimacy of the moment between them. She hated herself for crying in front of him. _Again. Pathetic_ , she chastised herself. _Worthless. A mess. A complication._ She recognized the spiral of self-pity quickly and bit her lip sharply to ground herself to the present lest she cry again. “I do not mean to be so weak.”

Solas’ eyes were trained intensely on her face; his hands felt warm where he’d left them cupped against her cheeks and the line between his auburn brows deepened. Hara cast her eyes down and trained them on the jawbone corded about his neck so she did not have to meet his gaze. A long moment of silence hung between them and Hara felt the flush of her cheeks begin to deepen. She was sure her freckles were starkly visible underneath the pink of her skin even in the darkness of the tent.

“ _Tel’abelas_ ,” Solas finally said, his voice firm but his tone hushed. “I told you once that it is not weakness to feel deeply about the past. It is not weakness to feel deeply about the present, either. You have nothing to be sorry for, Harellan.”

Hara let out a watery chuckle and met his gaze again. “ _Ma_ _serannas_ ,” she mumbled. The line between his brows had softened somewhat, but his gaze was so compassionate and so serious she found it difficult to breathe as she looked into his eyes. “I don’t do ‘vulnerability’ well.”

“I know,” Solas replied, the corner of his mouth quirked in an almost-smile, “Or apologies. Or pity. Or kindness.”

Hara felt her breath catch in her throat as he quoted her verbatim when she’d waved away an apology he’d (attempted) to give her on the Storm Coast following that ill-fated night when he’d wagered her a secret over Wicked Grace in Haven’s tavern. Something about the fact that he’d remembered it all perfectly fisted tightly around her heart, and before she knew it, another pair of unwelcome tears had rolled down her cheeks. Solas brushed his thumbs underneath her eyes once more, though his own were suddenly fixated on her vallaslin.

“ _Ahn_ , Solas?” Hara breathed the question, feeling incredibly self-conscious underneath his sudden scrutiny.

“I…” Solas began, the pads of his fingers twitching strangely behind her ears, as though he knew he ought to release her but was having difficulty making his hands obey his brain. Hara swore a flush spread across the tops of his cheeks. _Freckles_. She hadn’t paid close attention to them before, but they stood out against his flush and suddenly, he looked more akin to a handsome if nervous youth than a serious, battle-hardened Fade expert. Solas cleared his throat and continued. “I would know more of you, Harellan. Before the Dalish. Before the vallaslin.”

Hara could not stop herself from pulling away in her surprise, and Solas made an almost imperceptibly soft, strangled noise in the back of his throat as she drew herself back from him. This, she hadn’t expected. Of course, she hadn’t expected approximately nine out of ten things about her time with the Inquisition, about Solas, about her other companions here. About her _friends_. Her _family_. Hara worried sharply at her lower lip. She reminded herself that he was not the clan, and nor were the others.

Solas must’ve seen the emotions flash across her face. “If you are unwilling—“ he began, at the same moment she said, “ _Ma nuvenin_.” Hara saw his eyes widen slightly in surprise. It seemed he had not expected her acquiescence. She did not intend it to be one-sided.

“Secrets for secrets?” Hara bartered. She tried a smile and hoped there was a teasing quality to her voice. She’d tried to infuse it into her tone, but she felt off-kilter at her own concession and could not be certain it came across as intended.

Another long moment of silence passed between them, and she expected him to take it back. She knew Solas guarded his secrets closely. Perhaps this desire for intimate knowledge was a one-way road. Perhaps he meant to gather information for his own purposes. Perhaps he—

“ _Vin_ , Harellan,” Solas finally conceded. His voice was quiet, thin, his acceptance nothing more than a whisper, as though he could not quite believe what he was agreeing to.

“One tonight,” Hara amended. “Each.” She was bone tired and felt raw, exposed, and she knew she could not endure prolonged questioning about the weather, much less about her childhood.

“ _Vin,_ Harellan,” Solas repeated, and she saw his throat bob up and down as he swallowed thickly. It seemed he was as uncomfortable as she had been that night in Haven’s tavern. _Distributive justice_ , she thought, and yet his disquiet struck something in her heart.

Wordlessly, Hara began to rifle through a nearby rucksack of supplies a soldier had handed her as they began their journey that morning. It had the basics—a small water skein, a few cloth bandages, some hard, brown bread, a few strips of dried tack— _and_ a flask of whiskey. It seemed she’d rescued this particular soldier’s paramour from a red templar in the battle for Haven and this was his method of thanks. Far be it from she to begrudge him his gratitude. She’d clasped the soldier’s arm in thanks when he explained the pack’s contents and tried her best to ignore the reverent look he gave her in return.

Hara uncorked the flask and took a hearty swig of the liquid before passing it to Solas silently. He sniffed at the flask tentatively and gave her a long-suffering look, though the half-smile on his lips told her he was not truly irritated with her.

“Liquid courage,” Hara explained, her tone deadpan, as though plying oneself with alcohol before sharing personal anecdotes were the most natural way of familiarizing oneself with another person.

“Tethras’ terminology?” Solas questioned, one eyebrow cocked bemusedly at her.

“My grandfather’s actually,” Hara replied, and he tipped the flask to his lips without another word. _See_ , she told herself, _That wasn’t so hard._ He passed the small, silvery container back to her silently and she returned the cork to the flask’s mouth.

“If you would,” Solas began, his voice low and the serious expression back upon his visage, “I would like to hear about him.”

Hara felt her heart thud heavily against her ribcage. _Of course he’d start there_. “I haven’t talked about him in years,” she began, suddenly finding a speck of dirt underneath one fingernail incredibly interesting. “Is there something specific you’d like to know?”

“Yes,” Solas began, and a long, pensive moment passed before he continued. “But not tonight. I would have you tell me a pleasant memory of him.”

The painful, twisting feeling in her heart returned: a sweet ache this time. He was so _kind_. Secretive, serious, maddeningly intelligent, likely scheming, but above all else, Solas was _kind_. He could have asked her anything. Instead, he bade her regale him with a happy memory. _Love and fools, da’len_ , she heard her grandfather intone, and she could not fight back the grin that spread across her face. Hara looked up at him and saw a soft smile on his lips as well. Something about his smile gave her courage.

“Alright,” Hara agreed, and drummed her fingertips across her mouth as she rifled through memories of her grandfather. He was serious, compassionate, musical, relentless in his pursuit for fairness, though he had a sarcastic streak as well and loved to see the little ones smile. Hara had gotten that, specifically, from him. She’d gotten _so much_ from him and had so very precious little opportunities to share it. Hara tried to settle on one specific memory to share and as she rubbed her calloused fingers against her lower lip, she thought to share the story of his hand-carved lute.

“My grandfather was a weaver of no small talent. I was six summers the year he made this elegant monstrosity for Keeper Deshanna. Something commemorative, I think? I can hardly remember it now, but I remember him working at it for what felt like months. Time seems to drag on for ages when you’re small,” Hara murmured, staring at the canvas walls of the tent as she tried to remember what the beautifully woven cloth was supposed to represent. Suddenly, she realized she was rambling. _He’d asked for a memory, not an epic._ She felt her flush return though when she flicked her eyes back to his face, she noted him listening with rapt attention. Her blush deepened.

“Go on,” Solas encouraged, though his eyes wandered across the flush on her cheeks and neck with undisguised amusement. Hara cleared her throat and continued.

“When the time came to make the trade, Clan Lavellan had been through a miserably hungry winter and hadn’t half the goods to give in return. We all had been, of course, though we _lived_ hungry in the alienage,” Hara muttered. She heard Solas exhale audibly in response. She refocused. This was not a story about hunger.

“That’s beside the point,” she continued. “My grandfather and Deshanna talked for ages about solidarity and equity, and in the end, the Keeper finally left with her cloth. He traded it for a beautifully carved lute and nothing else. No rations, no herbs, no meat. Just music. I hadn’t known he could play, and I still couldn’t tell you how he learned, but he would sit underneath the vhenadhal on those painfully hungry nights and regale us with the most beautiful music. When I was eight, he taught me to play… Those are some of my favorite memories of him. Persistence and beauty, even through pain.”

“You, in essence,” Solas murmured, a strange smile on his face as he regarded her. Something like sadness and solidarity and… love. It looked like love.

Hara’s flush intensified exponentially and she knew even Cassandra would be impressed with the color in her cheeks. “Your turn,” she managed to say, eager to take the focus off of herself and exponentially more interested to hear whatever Solas had to share in turn. She took another swig of the whiskey and passed the flask back to him.

Solas swallowed thickly for the second time that evening and took another long pull from her flask. “What would you have of me?” He asked as he swallowed the liquid.

 _Everything_ , Hara thought. “Why did you come to the Inquisition?” she asked instead.

“To assist with the Breach,” Solas answered shortly. His tone was clipped, decisive. Hara pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. He cleared his throat and inhaled deeply, as though he knew this simplistic explanation would not do. “There was a hole in the sky, Harellan. And then there was _you_. A mortal sent physically through the Fade. You were a mystery to me, one I could not unlock no matter how hard I tried. I knew the Mark was killing you. I was frustrated… Frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach.”

“What did you do next?” Hara breathed, suddenly enraptured by his story. This she had not heard, even in an abbreviated format.

Solas bit back an embittered laugh. “I tried harder,” he supplied, the furrow resolutely between his brows once more. “I could calm the mark, but it spread through you like wildfire nonetheless. As I told you in Haven… I tried to take it from you. I failed. It was permanent.”

 _You have spoilt it with your stumbling_ , Hara heard again, Corypheus voice’ booming through the darkness of the tent in an accusation only she could hear. She felt sweat begin to bead at her forehead and the breath caught roughly in her throat. Solas was so absorbed in his explanation he did not notice her sudden panic.

“Cassandra suspected duplicity,” he continued, staring at a point over her shoulder, lips pursed together in frustration. “She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I did not produce results.”

“Yes,” Hara muttered as soon as she could pull a breath into her lungs again, a shiver running down her spine as she imagined the altercation between them. “That sounds like Cassandra.”

“Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra, nor she in me,” Solas said, the furrow now a semi-permanent fixture between his brows as he looked past her, seemingly to a memory of an encounter he’d had with the Seeker. “I was ready to flee.”

“Where would you have gone?” Hara whispered, trying to imagine her life with the Inquisition without him. She found she could not. It was as unsettling as it was comforting. “The Breach threatened the whole world…”

To her surprise, Solas laughed warmly. “I never said it was a good plan.” His eyes wandered skyward, as though he were gazing at where the Breach might’ve been even through the canvas of the tent. “I told myself: One more attempt to seal the rifts. I tried and failed. No ordinary magic could affect them. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then…”

Hara worried at the ache in her marked palm as she remembered her hand in his as he bade her seal that first rift, confused and terrified but eager to help nevertheless. Solas noticed her anxious ministrations and took her hand in his, examining it between them: it would’ve been unremarkable beyond its smallness and the callouses on the pads of her fingertips if it weren’t for the sickly green tendrils of magic that seeped from the creases on her palm. Solas traced blue magic from his fingertips along the lines of her hand and the green tendrils obediently receded.

“How is it that you’re able to do that?” Harellan murmured, transfixed by the wave of relief that washed through her as the blue glow faded from Solas’ fingertips.

“I believe you specified one story,” Solas breathed, and he would not meet her gaze. He had not yet released her hand. “Nevertheless… When you sealed the rift, I felt the whole world change.”

“Felt the whole world change?” Hara repeated, his magic forgotten as her heart thudded madly against her ribcage once more.

“A figure of speech,” Solas clarified through a tight smile. He had not yet released her hand, but he raised his eyes to meet her gaze. He looked terribly vulnerable, as though he had never expected to share this much information with her, and certainly not at one time.

“Ah,” Hara responded flatly, withdrawing her hand from his as an icy feeling snaked itself around her heart. She appreciated his frankness but hearing his emotions reduced to metaphor was… painful, to say the last.

“Harellan,” Solas began again, and suddenly her face was cupped between his palms again. It seemed he intended to make her hear him, and Hara found she could not breathe for the intensity of his gaze as he stared into her eyes. “You are unlike anyone I have ever met. You are… More.”

 _More._ She’d never been _more_ before; in fact, she had lived her entire life as _less_. She searched for words and hoped he could read the connection in her eyes, the gratitude for his kindness, the depth of her emotion. She wanted to say the words, but she hadn’t in what felt like eons, and even then, never to someone who was not _family_. It was love, yes. Her fool heart was in love. She could not make her lips move for the weight of the admission but hoped against hope he knew it nevertheless.

It seemed he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK!!! so it was rather more emotionally intimate than physically intimate, but i felt like this needed to happen before the more intense physical stuff :') LITERALLY next time. promise, ok? 
> 
> Ir abelas - I am sorry  
> Tel’abelas - Do not be sorry  
> Ma serannas - My thanks  
> Ahn - What?  
> Ma nuvenin - As you wish  
> Vin - Yes


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> his tongue in her mouth, her heart in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY nsfw, potentially skippable content if you'd rather not.

Solas traced the lines of her vallaslin with his thumbs and drew her closer, bowing his head to brush his lips gently against hers. Hara found she could not breathe for the softness of his kiss and when she felt his tongue press against the seam of her mouth tentatively, she opened to him without hesitation. Hara brushed her hands along his jaw and allowed them to wander upwards, fingertips skirting along the sensitive, pointed outer shells of his ears as he explored her mouth with his tongue.

Solas bit back a moan against her mouth, the noise stifled and uncertain even as he moved closer to her, as though he knew it was unwise but could not stop himself from leaning into her touch—she felt as if she were something irresistible, something forbidden, something rare he knew he believed he should not have (or touch, or hold), and yet was keen to do so nonetheless.

This kiss was intoxicating, and Hara felt drunk on the sensation of his lips moving gently against hers. It was softer and slower than anything they’d shared before; she could hardly say she was used to such contact and the pace of this kiss was as agonizing as it was intoxicating. The two kisses they’d shared before had been quickened, frantic, under duress and therefore wholly juxtaposed to its slow, sensual nature.

He tasted faintly of the whiskey they’d shared and she could smell the smoke from the campfire on his skin as he drank deeply from her mouth. Hara felt Solas drag his fingertips across the skin of her neck, pressing gently against the soft pulse of her artery before trailing slowly across the lines of her collarbone. She felt her breath hitch in her throat as the tips of his fingers delved into the sensitive hollow between her clavicle and her neck, the motion so slow and deliberate it was as though he intended to memorize every inch of her skin with his fingertips.

Hara shuddered pleasantly at the sensation and found herself reaching for him in return, her palms pressed against the hard expanse of Solas’ chest, the warmth of his body pleasant against the coldness of her hands. He was _there_ —solid, firm underneath her hands, a real, tangible thing, so diametrically opposed to the shifting nightmares she’d encountered in the Fade. She held her hands there against him, content to experience the solidity of his form, her lips still locked with his in an increasingly slow and evermore gentle kiss.

Solas’ lips stilled against hers entirely and he drew back from her slowly, hesitantly, his hands suddenly at his sides before he clenched them into fists in his lap. He was staring down at her with open concern, uncertainty knit between his brows, and Hara stared back up at him in confusion. _Had she done something wrong?_ She started to ask him but was unsure her heart could take the answer, raw as her emotions were.

“ _Ir_ _abelas_ ,” he said after a long moment, finally shifting his gaze from her face to his hands. “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

Hara knew at once he’d misread her; it seemed he’d taken her shiver and her hands against his chest for discomfort and a nonverbal command to separate himself from her—as if she could’ve wanted him anything but closer. Her heartbeat quickened with the urgency to clarify her actions but her thoughts felt cloudy and terribly disorganized from the kiss. She settled for simple.

“You didn’t,” Hara whispered, and when Solas raised his head to meet her gaze again, she wasted no time with words. She pressed her lips against his and snaked her arms around his neck in an effort to close the physical and emotional distance between them.

Hara felt Solas smile against her mouth as he gathered her into his arms and pulled her onto his lap, threading his fingers loosely through her unbound hair. She was acutely aware of her thighs straddling his hips and the warmth of his body between her legs, of his hands in her hair and the feeling of his mouth, warm and wet against hers. Hara felt her heartbeat quicken, and Solas felt so _right_ underneath her that she could not stop herself from rocking her hips against his ever-so-slightly. He jerked sharply underneath her and tugged on the long strands threaded through his fingers in response. Hara gasped against his mouth in surprise, the sensation one of slight pain mixed with an almost intoxicating pleasure.

“ _Ir abelas_ , Harellan,” Solas murmured against her mouth, though she felt the tell-tale curve of his lips against hers and knew he was not sorry.

Hara pulled away from him slowly before leaning upwards to brush her lips featherlight against the pointed shell of his ear. “ _Tel’abelas,_ Solas,” she whispered mischievously, rocking her hips against his for a second time.

Solas growled as he released her hair, his hands quickly skirting down her torso before relocating to grip her hips tightly. His thumbs were pressed almost painfully against her hipbones and when she leaned away from him to look into his eyes, she found Solas’ pupils blown wide with desire, the blue of his irises turned dark and stormy. Hara could feel the evidence of Solas’ arousal through his leggings and she had no control of the blush that painted itself across her cheeks as she felt wet heat blossom at her center.

“Harellan,” Solas murmured, his gaze intense as he stared up at her. He said her name like a warning and it sent a chill down her spine in spite of the heat between them. There was an almost dangerous glint in his eyes as he adjusted his grip on her hips, holding her in place above him such that she could not move against him again and yet could not draw away either.

There was something about the way Solas looked at her—all reverence, hunger, and anticipation—that made her terribly bold. She ached to feel the calloused warmth of his hands against her bare skin and, before she had time to think about the implications, Hara impulsively fisted the thin fabric of her tunic in her hands and pulled the garment swiftly over her head.

Solas’ hands were upon her in a moment, wandering from where they rested on her hips along the meager curves of her waist, and higher still until his fingertips brushed against the edge of her breastband. The sweet ache between her thighs intensified at the feeling of his calloused palms against her bare skin and her head tilted backwards, eyes fluttering shut as she took in the sensation.

Hara felt one of Solas’ hands creep higher, fingertips brushing lightly along her ribcage as it journeyed upward, burning a hot trail along her skin. His fingertips trailed along her collarbone, her neck, and lightly brushed her cheek as he made to move a lock of her hair behind her ear. It was pleasantly disorienting to feel him all around her: underneath her, one hand resting against her ribcage and the other cupped against her cheek almost tenderly. Solas drug the pad of his thumb across her lower lip and she sighed at the sensation, reluctant to reopen her eyes lest he disappear and this moment between them prove to be nothing more than a trick of the Fade.

“Harellan,” Solas breathed, and now her name was like a prayer on his lips. “Look at me.” It was not quite a question, not quite a command.

Hara opened her eyes slowly and found him gazing down at her, the look upon his face discordant. She felt a thousand insecurities flood unbidden through her consciousness: her insubstantial curves, the constellation of freckles smattered across her skin, scars, old and new—pale and faded, angry and red—overlain across her body. She knew he could read the insecurity in her eyes and fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest.

“You are so beautiful,” Solas whispered, though he still wore that conflicted expression on his face. He seemed to be struggling to find the words to convey whatever it was he intended to say next, and Hara found she could not breathe from the tension. “…And I am not certain this is the best idea.”

His statement knocked the wind out of her and she couldn’t decide what was worse: his softened rejection or the fact that she agreed with him. Solas was right, of course. Hadn’t she said so herself in Redcliffe? _This is a terrible idea_. She’d barely managed to get the words out between rushed kisses then, unable to keep herself away from him once she’d known what he tasted like. What had he said in return?

“I know,” Hara replied, determined to keep the waver from her voice as she echoed his words in Redcliffe. And what had he done next, all those weeks ago? _Kissed her anyway_. She tried to reason with her fool heart, to stave off the hope that he might do so again.

Solas had not broken the eye contact between them; it seemed her concession did not appease him, the worry line between his brows suddenly prominent. Despite her agreement, he seemed incapable of removing his hand from her cheek. “This could lead to trouble,” Solas murmured, ghosting his thumb across her lower lip once more, eyes fixed on a freckle in the bow of her lips.

Perhaps he wanted her to argue with him? She decided to chance his rejection; she would rather be told a resounding and firm ‘no’ than wonder what the outcome could’ve been if she’d taken the chance when she had it.

“I know,” Hara said again, unwinding her arms from around his neck to trail her hands down his chest, creeping them slowly underneath the soft hem of his sweater.

Solas’ eyelids fluttered shut and he inhaled sharply as she trailed her fingertips across the hard planes of his stomach. She felt emboldened by his response and pressed her lips against the nape of his neck; she felt more than heard the low moan in the back of his throat as she trailed hot kisses along the curve of his neck and upwards along the solid lines of his jaw.

Hara brushed her lips against the pointed shell of his ear and fought back a smile as more words he’d said in Recliffe suddenly bubbled up in her mind. “Knowing and feeling are two different things,” she quoted, her tone low and teasing. 

“ _Vin_ , Harellan,” Solas chuckled, and she felt the rumble of his chest against her palms. A wave of relief washed over her at his concession and she exhaled a breathy laugh in return.

Hara slid her hands back down his chest and stomach to grab the hem of his tunic, pulling it swiftly over his head and dropping it carelessly into the growing pile of clothing beside them. As Solas pulled her closer, she could not bite back a heady moan at the feeling of his skin against hers—chest to chest, she could practically feel his heart beating out a mad rhythm, the jawbone corded about his neck pressed sharply between them. His hands slid down her back to the ties of breastband and he deftly unlaced and unwound the fabric from around her form.

Laid bare before him, Hara felt her self-consciousness return in full force. She steeled herself for a grimace of disappointment at her meager curves, but it never came. Instead, Solas trailed two fingers between her breasts and down the line of her abdominals, sending a chill down her spine that did not stop until it reached her core.

Solas grinned at her reaction and ran his hands up her sides before palming her breasts underneath his calloused hands, his thumbs circling her nipples and drawing an embarrassing whine from her throat. She tilted her head back at the sensation and he took the opportunity to push her backwards onto the bedroll, hovering above her with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Hara fisted the leather corded about his neck in her hand and tugged him down towards her, crushing her lips against his mouth as she trailed her other hand down his stomach to the laces of his breeches. Solas growled as he look her lower lip between his teeth and bit it lightly, raking his nails down her sides until he grasped her wandering hand in his. She fought back a whimper of complaint as he stopped her and when she looked up at him in question, she found his gaze a dizzying mix of craving and censure.

“Are you sure about this?” Solas breathed against her lips, his forehead tilted against hers as he gazed down into her eyes. The look on his face was uncharacteristically open—raw, even—as though the weight of her response carried a greater implication than she could possibly imagine.

“ _Vin_ , Solas,” Hara whispered against his lips, the hand she had fisted around the jawbone corded about his neck now slack. “Are you?”

In the long moment between her question and his response, she despised herself for her vulnerability. She felt terribly exposed: as though she were not merely naked underneath his hands, but as if she’d lain her very soul out for his inspection. He released her hand and trailed his fingertips up her side slowly before cupping her cheek with his hand.

Solas brushed his lips against hers gently and whispered his agreement against her mouth. “ _Vin_ , Harellan,” he murmured, and he slid his hands down her sides to rest on her hips once more. He hooked his fingertips into the waistband of her leggings and slid them down her hips along with her smalls.

He pressed a trail of kisses from her mouth, down her throat, between her breasts, and along her stomach before pressing two chaste kisses against her hipbones. Hara felt his breath, hot and intoxicating at the apex of her thighs, and when he bit a soft trail along her inner thighs, she felt herself turn to liquid underneath him.

Hara raked her fingernails along his scalp and bit her lip to contain a whine as she urged his mouth lower, the feeling of his lips against her inner thighs driving her to distraction. When Solas slid his tongue across her hot, wet center, she had to bite her lip sharply to keep from crying out. He ran his tongue along her slit and she let out a stifled moan as he drug two fingers between her lips to rub soft, torturous circles against her clit.

She jerked against him, eyes closed as she rocked her hips against his hand and mouth in an agonizingly slow cant. Solas nipped her inner thigh as she tugged at the sensitive, tapered points of his ears; he slid one finger into her hot, wet center and curled it against the sensitive bundle of nerves at her core.

“Fuck, Solas,” Hara whimpered, chasing more friction against her center as she rocked her hips upwards against his hand.

“ _Vin_ , Harellan,” Solas acquiesced, and though she could not see the expression on his face, she could hear the smugness in his voice. He slipped a second digit inside her and a string of incomprehensible Elvhen peppered with Common tumbled from her lips.

“Solas, please,” Hara whispered, and her skin felt terribly hot and flushed as she rocked heavily against his palm, desperate to feel more of him against her, inside her, and the sweet ache between her thighs intensified. She felt her breath catch in her throat as Solas lazily drew circles against her clit with his thumb, the two fingers he’d slipped inside her working at an increased pace.

Hara arched her back as she felt her innermost walls clench around his fingers and she knew she was teetering on the brink of her release. Solas seemed to sense her urgency and replaced his thumb on her clit with his mouth, his tongue swirling languidly against her center. She could not stop herself from tugging sharply on the points of Solas’ ears as she canted her hips against his mouth, and she moaned his name through clenched teeth as she came.

She let out a shaky breath as a wave of pleasure flooded through her body and she felt simultaneously numb and completely electrified as he pressed one last kiss against her center.

“You taste exquisite,” Solas murmured against her inner thigh as he rested his cheek against her hipbone. She felt herself color at his sensual praise and she squeezed his shoulders in a nonverbal request draw himself back up towards her mouth.

Hara pressed her lips against his and slipped her tongue into his mouth, satisfied when she coaxed a moan from Solas’ mouth at the feeling of her tongue sliding against his. She could taste herself on him and there was something so sensual about the nature of the kiss that it sent another jolt of desire straight to her center. She couldn’t contain herself any longer; she had to feel him, have him, _all_ of him.

Solas’ eyes flickered shut as she palmed him through his leggings; he was almost painfully hard and he groaned at the sensation of her fingertips trailing against his length, his face buried in the nape of her neck as he whispered what sounded like a plea into her skin. Hara fumbled with the laces of his breeches and growled irritably when she could not untie them; he pushed her hands to the side and quickly unlaced them himself. Hara pushed his leggings off of his hips and curled her palm around his length, working her hand up and down his cock in a long, languid stroke.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” he growled against her neck, nipping sharply at her nape and sending a jolt of pleasure mixed with pain straight to her core.

Hara stroked him once more and bit back a self-satisfied smile at the look of desperate pleasure on his visage as he hovered above her; she raked the nails of her free hand down his obliques as she guided the head of his cock against her wet center. A string of Elvhen curses escaped his lips as he canted his hips against her, the heat of her center slick against his shaft; he gripped her hips tightly, his grip almost painful as he hovered over her.

“Harellan,” Solas moaned, her name tumbling from his mouth, a curse and a prayer at once. His stormy blue eyes were locked with her honeyed ones as he settled himself between her thighs, an unspoken question on his lips as he pressed himself against her entrance.

“Please, Solas,” Hara begged in response, desperate to feel him inside her.

Solas pressed himself against her and she wrapped her arms around his neck in an effort to draw him closer. She could feel the heat of his chest pressed against hers and yet it was not enough—not yet, not until he slid into her carefully, his pace almost agonizingly slow as he waited for her to adjust around him, inch by inch.

As Solas moved against her, Hara lost herself in the sweet rhythm of their bodies undulating together as one. She felt herself peak and clench around him for a second and a third time, one of his hands between her legs drawing slick circles against her clit as he joined their bodies again and again. The slant of his hips against hers was perfect and the head of his cock teased the bundle of nerves deep within her with each stroke; as his breath quickened, she knew he was close.

“Come for me,” Hara pleaded, and he moaned her name almost reverently as he seated himself deeper inside her still. She drug her nails down his back and canted her hips up towards his one last time, and he was lost.

Hara felt him spill inside her and as he collapsed against her—shuddering heat pressed against her center, liquid silk between her legs. She was almost delirious at the sensation of him hilted within her, his breath hot and fast against the nape of her neck.

Hara could not say how much time had passed before he slid out of her and pulled her against his chest, his lips pressed against her forehead in a tender gesture as he held her against him. At some point, Solas shifted their positions so that she lay with her back pressed pressed against his chest.

It seemed he meant to hold her through the night and she felt a strange twinge in her chest as she realized it would be the first time someone had stayed with her after the passion was spent. Hara could feel Solas’ breath against her neck, slow and deep as he drifted off with his arms tightly wound around her still-naked form. She felt more than heard him murmur something against her skin, and her curiosity got the better of her as she realized he was talking in his sleep.

“ _Ahn_ , Solas?” Hara whispered the question into the darkness, more of an exhale than an inquiry.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” Solas murmured, sleepy and at once possessive into the nape of her neck.

Her heart swelled, and she knew she was destined for another sleepless night. She did not care.

The Veil itself could have crumbled down around them with her consent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOOO this is my first time writing something like that! thoughts? feelings? concrit? all welcome ;) 
> 
> Ir abelas - I’m sorry  
> Tel’abelas - I’m not sorry  
> Vin - yes   
> Ahn - what  
> Vhenan - (my) heart


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> super short and puuuure Solas POV fluff. we'll get back on track with our storyline after this :) as always, i cannot tell you how appreciative i am of your feedback, comments, and kudos! 
> 
> xx camp

Solas awoke with a start when Harellan finally drifted to sleep pressed against him; it was only once he felt her enter the Fade that he realized what he’d done. He was normally ever-cognizant of his place in space and time, and yet… He had been completely unaware as he drifted off next to her. Only the Anchor’s sharp pull at the edge of his consciousness as she entered the Fade drew him back to the waking world.

Solas warred with himself about the implications of this occurrence. Half of him wanted to curse himself for his negligence, to rationalize this closeness as an unnecessary and ill-advised distraction from his plans; the other half was struggling to fight back a boyish grin at the feeling of her skin pressed against his. He was grateful the Evanuris could not see him now, stupid and pleased yet more content than he'd been in centuries as he tightened his grip on the woman sleeping in his arms.

He knew their closeness was a mistake, another in a long string of miscalculations it seemed he was destined to make. His errors were endless: before her, with her, because of her—and waking up next to her would be yet another. He knew he ought to leave, but there was something about the softness of her breath against his skin in the dark solitude of her tent that all but chained him to her. _Still_ , he reasoned, as he counted her slow, steady breaths. She had not consented to _this_ , and the implications of waking next to him come morning had not been discussed.

He weighed the consequences of simply slipping away and returning to the the tent he shared with Tethras. He could perhaps explain away his presence with the demons she’d found in the Fade. He was sure almost everyone in camp had heard her in the throes of her nightmare, and their closeness upon her return after the fall of Haven was no secret. It would make sense for him to offer comfort, a reassuring presence against the things that haunted her in dreams.

What was more, it was the truth; he felt her in the Fade, panicked and nearly overcome by a demon of Envy, and he had only just managed to startle her to wakefulness. He was grateful he’d chosen to wear a form he had not assumed since waking from uthenera, that he had not heeded Wisdom’s caution against allowing the Wolf to take the reins of his consciousness.

Nevertheless, her nightmares were a viable excuse for his presence in her quarters, one that had nothing to do with the way he might feel about her or she about him.

But no, that was a lie beyond simple omission, and he hated to think of her waking without him and assuming he had left for any other reason beyond her own comfort come morning. Harellan was unusually fragile, and though she had not shared her thoughts with him out loud, he knew she blamed herself for every loss in Haven. She would likely blame herself if she awoke alone the next morning. He would not allow his behavior to deepen a wound in her heart.

 _Still_ , he reasoned again. He should not be here. 

It wasn’t that he was ashamed of the intimacy between them; he was loathe for their closeness to cause her trouble she would not otherwise contend with. Their lovemaking had been quiet; whispered sighs and stifled moans, and he felt himself begin to harden, pressed against her shapely ass as he relived the surreal moments of tenderness and desire between them. He should not be here, and yet...

It was selfish, but he did not want to leave her.

It would be infinitely simpler to reduce their intimacy to carnal comfort, their lovemaking a physical and emotional anchor to the present, an panacea against the panic she felt when she awoke, throat raw, breathing shallow, sweat and tears from fitful slumber. The trouble was that it meant something infinitely more complex to him, and he knew (he hoped, he dared to dream) that it did to her as well. _Selfish, yes_ , he thought, _and_ _more_.

 _Foolish_ , he thought, as he felt her slow, steady heartbeat against his chest. _Unwise_ , he chastised himself, as he allowed one hand to drift along the firm, flat plane of stomach, his fingertips lightly brushing the downy-soft curls above her sex. _Reckless_ , he finished, as he pressed a featherlight kiss behind her ear, a sweet ache in his chest at the soft murmur of contentment she gave in return.

“Solas,” She breathed into the darkness, and his wandering hand stilled against her hip.

He said nothing and she rolled over against him, her chest flush with his as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. She inhaled deeply, her exhale a contented hum against his clavicle.

“ _Ahn_ , Harellan?” He whispered the question, his pulse suddenly racing at the sensation of her breath against his skin. He had not meant to wake her, cursed himself for pulling her out of the Fade for a second time that night when she so desperately needed to rest. Despite his concern about appearances and decorum, about what it might mean for her to wake next to him, he found himself hoping she would not send him away.

“ _Ma_ _serannas_ ,” she sighed, her voice endearing and unguarded, thick with sleep as she whispered thanks into his skin.

“For?” He asked, swallowing thickly as she slid one leg between his and tangled her arms around his neck.

“Staying,” she clarified, and pressed a solitary kiss into the hollow of his throat.

He fought back a smile as he tucked her head underneath his chin, fingertips tracing the constellation of freckles on her back as her breathing slowed once more. This was foolish, yes. Dangerous, selfish, unwise, ill-advised, and more.

Love often was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahn - what  
> ma serannas - my thanks


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay okay okay, next time we're back to our regularly scheduled programming. promise!! 
> 
> xx camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly NSFW

Hara woke before dawn the next morning still tangled up in him, though their positions had shifted considerably in the night. Solas had his arms around her waist and his face pressed against her stomach; he was curled around her lower-half like an oversized house cat, his breathing slow and deep against her skin. She blinked blearily at the endearing image he cut before marveling that he could sleep comfortably in such an awkward position.

A wide smile spread slowly across her face as images from the night before flooded through her mind. It had been… perfect. And he had stayed—actually _stayed_ —with her. He’d held her through the night and seemed to have no intentions of letting her go, considering he had maintained a vice-like grip on her even in his slumber.

Hara shut her eyes and allowed herself to sink into the sensation of his breath against her skin, to bask in the feeling of being held, feeling _wanted_ after so many years spent in a state of indifference or revulsion. _More_ , he’d called her. _Unlike anyone I have ever met._ She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes and opened her eyes to blink the moisture away.

As she gazed down at his sleeping form, she wished she could stay wrapped up in him for hours to come—but with the dawn came renewed responsibilities. It was barely morning, judging by the lack of light in the tent, but they had work to do and many miles to cover. The vast majority of camp would still be asleep; she could not hear the quiet sounds of people waking nor smell the morning meal being prepared. They had time, yes, but not by much—and she wasn’t sure how he felt about leaving her tent come morning.

There would be witnesses and questions and surely no small amount of ribbing from a handful of their companions. Perhaps he would prefer to slip out unaccompanied and return to his own quarters; they had hardly agreed upon a ‘morning after’ contingency plan and she figured she owed him the option of leaving unseen. And yet… As she took in the sight of him wrapped around her body, she had serious misgivings about rousing him. A loud snore from someone—Bull, perhaps, judging by the utter ferocity of the sound—in a tent nearby pulled her from her reverie. She sighed and resigned herself to waking him.

“Good morning, Solas,” Hara whispered, shifting underneath him to free her arms from where they were sandwiched between them. She trailed a hand across his scalp and fought back a smile at the sensation of barely-there stubble against her fingertips.

His only response was a low noise, something between a grumble and a growl that she felt more than heard with his face pressed against her abdomen.

“ _On dhea_ , Solas,” Hara repeated, switching to Elvhen and speaking marginally louder. She moved her hands to his shoulders and shook him gently, hopeful that the soft motion coupled with her quiet voice would rouse him from his slumber.

“No,” Solas mumbled in complaint, his lips still pressed against her stomach. He tightened his arms around her torso and huffed a sigh against her skin.

“No?” Hara asked, her tone incredulous. She stared down at him, her features arranged in an expression she had not worn in what felt like ages—lips pursed and one eyebrow raised, an expression she reserved exclusively for stubborn or misbehaving children.

“No,” he repeated, his denial nothing more than a sigh against her skin. He nuzzled his cheek further down her torso to rest it against her hip. “It is not morning,” he continued after several long, slow breaths, the warmth of his exhalation tickling her sensitive skin. “And time is but a construct of mortals. Be that as it may, whatever it is… It _is_ good.”

Hara’s expression shifted back into the stupid smile she wore upon waking. “Semantics aside,” she whispered in response, “It is time to get up. We have another long day ahead of us.” She knew she did not sound particularly convincing. She had almost no desire to continue their frozen slog towards Skyhold, but the thought of spending more time, vulnerable and exposed in the Frostbacks with a host of refugees and injured soldiers in her care, spurred her to action.

“I am aware,” Solas sighed, pressed a solitary kiss against her hipbone, and lifted his head to gaze up at her sleepily, “Though only marginally awake.”

“ _Ir_ _abelas_ , I know it’s early,” Hara apologized, and a sprig of uncertainty blossomed in her chest as she thought about what to say next. “But… I thought you might like to sneak out of here. I wasn’t sure how you felt about…” She trailed off awkwardly; she was sure he would catch her meaning nevertheless. _Being seen. With me._

“Indeed,” Solas sighed. He unraveled his arms from around her waist, and pushed himself up into a seated position at the end of her bed roll; she felt the loss of his skin against hers keenly and began to worry at her lower lip. As she watched him brush sleep from his eyes with the back of one elegant hand and reach about blindly for his leggings with the other, she felt some of her anxiety melt away. 

She took mercy on him and retrieved his leggings from where they’d been shoved underneath her bedroll and passed him the object of his quest. He handed her a pile of her own clothing in exchange and pulled on his leggings without another word. Hara fought back a smile as she watched him lace his breeches in silence, his long fingers fumbling with the ties, glowering at the laces with only one eye open all-the-while.

There was something so unguarded and endearing about his sleepiness, about his slow, deliberate movements that utterly mesmerized her. Hara watched as he pulled on his undershirt and tunic and began to pack her bedroll with almost military precision. He carefully folded and stowed away her blankets within the roll itself and tied the whole outfit together with two leather straps that lay forgotten in a corner of the tent.

It was only when he cleared his throat that she realized she was staring; that she was still stark naked in the pale morning light, drinking in the sight of him. A flush spread across her cheeks and neck and she quickly wrapped her breastband around her chest before pulling the oversized tunic she slept in over her head. Hara tugged on her smalls and leggings and began to repack her small pack of supplies, her eyes lingering on the flask of whiskey they’d passed back and forth the night before.

 _Liquid courage_ , she remembered as she held the small silver container in her hand. If she needed liquid courage to share a simple story with him, and he with her... Well, surely that did not bode well. _Love and fools_. Was she willing to be vulnerable, to be foolish, to share an intimacy beyond the physical? She chewed absentmindedly on the corner of her lip as she pondered what it could mean to trust these unspoken parts of her self to someone else. She was relearning how to be a friend, yes. But she had never learned how to be a lover—not really, not beyond simple carnal pleasure with a hunting companion on a cold, hungry night.

“ _Ahn_ , Harellan?” Solas whispered, his voice quiet as he gently pried the flask from her hands and tucked it back into her pack.

“I just…” Hara began, raising her gaze to look into his eyes. They were impossibly blue, even in the darkness of the tent, and she commanded herself to breathe. She inhaled slowly and said, “I am not sure how to do this.”

“This?” Solas asked. There was a furrow between his auburn brows, though his eyes betrayed his understanding. She knew he only asked for clarification for her benefit.

Hara thought for a long moment about how she might explain what she meant. There were a number of avenues she might take, from a sharp quip about repacking her supplies, to outright denial of her emotions, to excusing their intimacy as an ill-considered comfort from the horrors of losing Haven. She elected to take the path of vulnerability instead.

“Us,” Hara finally answered. “You are…” She worried at her lower lip and stared at a patched portion of canvas over his shoulder, pondering how she might convey how she felt without all-but placing her heart in his hands. She felt his fingertips brush against hers and met his gaze. She read patience—patience tempered with an almost indiscernible vulnerability—in his eyes. “Important,” she continued, and before she could lose her nerve added, “It has been ages since someone has been important to me… And never quite like this.”

“Yes,” Solas said in agreement, a faraway look in his eyes as he brushed his fingertips along her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps across her forearm and along her shoulders. “It has been a long time, and things have always been easier for me in the Fade. You are decidedly more tangible than anything I might encounter there,” he murmured, his voice low as he brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Perhaps we should keep this between ourselves for now,” Hara offered, trying to remain focused on their conversation amidst the sensation of his palm against her cheek, “Until we’ve had time to think on it.”

“Yes,” Solas replied, his tone quiet and measured, “I, too, would like time to think. There are… considerations.”

“Not the least of which being how little we truly know of one another,” Hara added, and she did not miss how thickly he swallowed in response.

Solas gave her a lingering look before removing his hand from her cheek, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Of course,” he said, pulling away from her and moving to leave her tent.

He had only just ducked his head underneath the flap of the tent before a wave of impulsivity crashed over her. She did not want to let him leave without tasting his lips against hers once more.

“Wait,” Hara breathed, and before she could stop herself, she had followed him out of the tent, her fingertips catching the hem of his tunic.

Solas turned to face her with surprise written across his features, his brows raised and an unspoken question in his eyes. Hara snaked her arms around his neck and stood on her tip toes to brush her lips against his. She could feel him smile against her mouth as he returned her gentle kiss, his hands suddenly tanged in her unbound hair as he pulled her closer against him, his tongue sliding languidly across her lower lip.

Hara hummed contentedly at the sensation and slipped her tongue past his lips to taste him, warmth blossoming between her thighs as she realized he still tasted faintly of her from the night before. Solas made to move a thigh between her legs and she stifled a breathy moan, her head spinning at how quickly they had gone from putting distance between one another to _this_.

Hara was fighting back the urge to rock her hips against his thigh and had almost lost the battle with her better judgment when she heard a loud “Ahem!” behind them.

She felt her face drain of all color and her sudden breathlessness had nothing to do with the intensity of Solas’ kiss.

As they pulled away from one another, she swallowed hard and took in a deep breath, exhaling long and slow through her nostrils. She took an awkward step away from Solas to turn and face whomever had interrupted their kiss. She found none other than Varric Tethras utterly beaming at them, his smile completely genuine underneath a layer of blood still crusted in his beard and mustache.

Hara opened her mouth to speak and tried to think of something, _anything_ to say in response. She was at a complete loss, of course. There could be no denial and she had no idea what she might offer in explanation, given she didn't even have one for herself, much less for the dwarf smirking up at her. She shut her mouth with such intensity that she heard her teeth hit together and risked a glance upwards at Solas. He looked distinctly unamused and appeared no more inclined to verbosity than she.

“Sleep well, you two?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on dhea - good morning  
> ir abelas - i'm sorry  
> ahn - what


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, for something radically different: Companion perspectives :’) I’d love to hear your thoughts on this!

**_Varric_ **

Twelve days and eleven nights passed between his discovery and their arrival in Skyhold, though it took most of their companions a solid week to notice something different between the two. Varric was privately quite proud that he hadn’t been the one to spill the proverbial beans. Truthfully, he had ulterior motives for maintaining their secrecy.

At first, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to contain himself after he’d seen them wrapped up in one another outside her tent. He’d never admit it aloud, but there was something about witnessing that moment between them in the pale morning light that was like a knife in his heart. Maybe it had something to do with the earnestness in Scarecrow’s voice— _Wait_ , she’d whispered to him, and the longing he heard there reminded him of someone.

Namely, himself.

It made parts of him ache for Bianca—the _real_ Bianca. He’d always been a sucker for a complex and ill-advised relationship—affairs like these were impossibly romantic, made for excellent reading material. Shit, he’d spent the better part of his life hopelessly devoted to a woman he could only love from afar. It made for a damn romantic story—star-crossed elven lovers taking comfort in one another in secrecy, stolen kisses under the cover of night. Andraste’s ass, when he considered the travel-wearied faces around him, he almost gave them up simply to give the refugees something exciting to talk about.

In the end, he kept his trap shut— _purely out of self-interest,_ he told himself. _Nothing to do with loyalty or friendship or the threat of retaliation._ Truthfully, Varric had not forgotten the time she’d threatened to dump his manuscript into the campfire, aided by none other than the book-stabber herself, Cassandra Pentaghast… nor had he forgotten the time the Seeker-in-question had attempted to bludgeon him to death with cookware. _Fine_ , he told himself, _it was a matter of loyalty, friendship, the threat of retaliation,_ and _self-interest._

He had money on it, see—had a bet going with Tiny and Hero as to how long it would take their resident apostate and the Herald of Andraste to _truly_ act on their feelings—and damnit, he wanted to win.

Everyone knew about their emotional reunion after the fall of Haven, of course. Even if Chuckles hadn’t threatened to beat the shit out of Sparkler for leaving Scarecrow behind when they rejoined the camp, it would’ve been obvious. He hadn’t been there to witness it firsthand, but he’d heard the stories— she’d struggled—half-frozen and partially aflame—out of Curly’s grasp to reach him, and then she’d _cried_ , cried _actual tears_ as Chuckles threw his arms around her. Clue number one: Scarecrow didn’t cry. Not while she was conscious, anyway.

And then, when Chuckles had sent for _him_ to watch her in the healer’s tent while he saw to the other wounded? Shit. It was a dead giveaway. He could’ve asked anyone there to look after her, but he’d specifically sent for _Varric._ He’d spent more time than he’d care to admit considering why this was, and the only logical explanation? Clue number two: it was because Chuckles didn’t trust anyone else with her care.

And the final nail in the coffin? When she’d wandered off and he’d thought he’d _lost her_ —for fuck’s sake, he had _one job_ and Scarecrow had _up and disappeared_ while he left to hunt down Hero and Buttercup—Clue number three. Where had he found her? With Chuckles, utterly _mooning_ at him, so completely lost in thought (clearly pertaining to the apostate next to her) that she’d looked _right through him_. Andraste’s ass, he was short, _sure_ —but he’d had to holler at her before she even noticed him.

Ergo: He loved her, and she loved him, and that was that.

Except love was infinitely more complicated than that: not just an emotion, but an action, and one so far beyond simple matters of the heart. He’d spent too many years with (and without, and pining for) Bianca to reduce it to something so simplistic as feeling. After all, knowing and feeling are two different things, and if Varric knew anything at all, it was that he would win this bet.

He knew his Scarecrow better than the rest of them—had to, obviously, given he’d spent more time with her than the Warden or the Ben-hassrath combined, traipsing across Ferelden and Orlais as she restored order. He’d seen her take a blow meant for another on more than one occasion, knew she consistently put others above her own self-interest, would force herself into uncomfortable situations if it meant she might ease the weight of someone else's pain in return.

And what was more, he’d seen her withdraw and shut down and pull back intimate parts of herself—her life, her story, her feelings—time and time again. No, he knew his Scarecrow better than that. She might be in love, but she would wait. She was too damn self-sacrificing to do anything but set aside her own desires until she knew the rest of them were safe and sound. And even in the unlikely event that she had a lapse in judgment and elected to act on her feelings, well—he could surely rely on Chuckles to maintain his distance and restraint.

Varric grew more confident in his assessment as he watched her lead them high into the Frostback Mountains underneath Chuckles’ advisement. Scarecrow was distracted, distant, and he’d caught her staring at Chuckles with a complex look upon her face on more than one occasion. Something like wary attraction tempered with a heavy dose of uncertainty—maybe even suspicion. Scarecrow was working something out in her mind, he was sure of it. She was hesitant, unsettled—in short, hardly about to fall into his arms.

The Qunari had a different opinion, of course—so different, in fact, that he was willing to wager a rather hefty sum on their relationship.

“About time that happened,” Tiny said as they marched into the mountains, his voice low and a sly grin on his face, eye twinkling mischievously as he watched Scarecrow and Chuckles cut a path for the rest of them. “Been a long time coming, you know.”

“Ha!” Varric had barked a laugh. “Nothing’s happened _yet_ , not _really_ ,” he scoffed. “The timeline’s all wrong.” He’d tapped his temple knowingly and grinned, smug and confident, omniscient even, “I know her better than that. She’ll wait.”

“It’s not her I’m worried about,” Tiny snorted, and if he’d had another eye Varric was sure he’d have rolled it. “It’s him. It’ll be less than twenty-four hours from now,” the Qunari added, “And he’ll come to her.”

“Oh, sure,” Varric replied, his voice thick with sarcasm, “You’re the expert on relationships here. Everyone knows the _Qun_ produces the most attentive and romantic lovers.”

“If you’re so convinced that I’m wrong,” Bull challenged, “Put your money where your mouth is.”

“I _am_ convinced you’re wrong,” Varric chided, “And we _should_ put some money on it. Scarecrow’ll wait until we’re out of the proverbial—and literal—woods before falling into his arms. She’s too focused on taking care of everyone else right now and besides, she’s working out some shit in her head. I can see it. It’s coming, but not _now_. I’ll wager it’s the same night we arrive at this grand fortress. I do, however, agree that he’ll go to her.”

Tiny had goaded Hero into the pool, rationalizing that this game was far more interesting with three players—and that, given both he and Varric had claimed so much of his money in Wicked Grace, this could be a fine opportunity for the Warden to redeem himself. At first, Varric didn’t think Hero would go for it. Something about dishonoring a noble woman, betraying the trust of their friends, et cetera, et cetera. He’d absolutely agonized over his bet, but Hero acquiesced in the end, of course—once Tiny insulted the size of his “pocketbook.”

“Right, fine,” Blackwall had growled, thrusting a handful of coins into Bull’s outstretched hand. “I agree with Varric. They’ll wait until we get to Skyhold, but she’ll go to him. He’s careful with her, understands she needs her space. Unless he’s daft, he’ll wait for her to make the first move.”

Of course, they’d both been wrong. It had happened much faster than he and Blackwall had wagered, and he hated to think of Tiny’s smug face as he collected his winnings. But… he’d been the only one who’d seen them wrapped up in one another, after all. And if Tiny remained ignorant of their intimacy until they reached their destination? Well, all the better. His friends kept their privacy and he kept his gold.

In fact, it seemed he was on track to keep his money. He would’ve become a wealthier dwarf if it hadn’t been for Buttercup, damn her elven eyes. And oh, it had been such a little thing that tipped them. A week into their journey, Sera had noticed Chuckles’ hand lingering at the small of Scarecrow’s back. He’d helped her scale a cliff in search of a vantage point to scout out their path and seemed to have forgotten to take his hand with him.

Buttercup had scaled the cliff after them and, when she discovered Chuckles had left his “elfy-elf paws” on Scarecrow? Naturally, she’d made a retching noise so loud it could’ve woke the dead. Then, she hollered at their “blessed Herald of Andraste” about “bumping bits with Elvhen glory just so it _means_ something,” and pretended to vomit over the cliff onto an ill-situated Blackwall. How Buttercup read so much in a single gesture was truly astonishing—maybe she’d been joking, crass and loud and full of bluster as she was—but the seventy shades of red on Scarecrow’s face had been a dead giveaway.

So no, he hadn’t spilled their secret, but he lost nevertheless—miserably in fact, and in the end, both he and Blackwall handed a hefty purse over to Tiny. The Qunari’s face was predictably smug, his eye dancing with unspoken laughter as he counted his spoils.

Still. It _wasn’t_ his fault.

 

**_Dorian_ **

 His assessment?

The mere notion of a relationship between the two was absolutely ridiculous. He said as much to anyone who bothered to listen. Preposterous! Absurd! Ludicrous!

 _And_ completely unsurprising, given what he and Hara had been through together in Redcliffe and what he’d learned about the pair of them since (or was it Harellan? He hadn’t yet broached that topic with her, given one or both of them had been lost or half-dead or in recovery or _cavorting with unwashed hobo apostates_ for the past week).

His bluster about the impossibility of their relationship was to protect her privacy, of course. But no, he wasn’t surprised in the least.

He hadn’t forgotten the strange connection Solas and Hara seemed to share in Alexius’ false future, nor had he forgotten Solas carrying her sleeping form back to the tavern as the sun began to stain the sky pink the morning after their ill-begotten exercise in time travel. He’d been up drinking, of course. In fact, he’d almost invited Hara to join him, but he could read the need for solitude and silence all over her face. She would not allow herself to seek comfort in the one person (read: himself, of course) who had lived that horrific experience with her—but for whatever reason, it seemed she’d cried herself to sleep that night with _him_.

What was more, there were other rumblings of feelings between the two in the days that followed. She’d sought out the elven apostate on the same night they’d arrived in Haven after steadfastly ignoring everyone but Dorian on the journey home. He had no idea why she’d done it; in fact, it almost looked as though she meant to stay the night with him, considering Solas had retrieved some of her things from her quarters. But in the end she’d bolted, sequestered herself in her cabin, apparently having resolved herself to face her demons alone.

Yet the apostate did not seem keen to allow her to suffer in silence. Solas crafted a tonic _specifically for her_ to induce dreamless sleep—no small feat, to be sure—and she’d regained some strength before her attempt to seal the Breach. That, too, had been utterly disastrous. She _had_ sealed the Breach, yes, but it seemed the stress of the moment had awoken some dormant magical potential sleeping in her skin, and a powerful magical inferno had all-but consumed her in the aftermath.

He’d taken shifts with Solas monitoring her unconscious form in Adan’s spare room, theorizing about her newfound ability to catch fire at wholly inopportune moments. It had happened once before, apparently, when she’d set a portrait in the apostate’s cabin aflame simply because she did not like the look of the man portrayed within. _Delightful,_ Dorian had said, breathless from laughter at Solas’ serious depiction of her penchant for impromptu arson. _Yes,_ the apostate had agreed, his eyes fixed on her sleeping face. _She is_.

And when he, the Iron Bull, and Varric had stumbled into the makeshift camp formed by Haven’s refugees, absent one axe-wielding elven maiden? He thought Solas might kill him. Truthfully, in that moment, he might have let him. He hated himself for how they’d left her behind, for all-but abandoning her to her fate. Yes, they’d agreed to it beforehand, and yes, she’d _technically_ thrown fire at them to hasten their retreat. But… all he’d done before she sent them away was cast one last, measly, thin, _pathetic_ barrier over her small form as an abomination and an archdemon bore down on her.

It was clear as day to him: Solas was in love with her, and he suspected she felt the same.

So, no, contrary to how he responded whenever anyone in his remote proximity brought up her apparent relationship with the apostate: he was not surprised in the least.

Naturally, he pounced on her the morning after the rumors began. Not physically, of course—Maker, she _was_ beautiful (for a person of the female persuasion), but what a thing to think! The refugees from Haven kept a wide berth around him, so they were practically alone in the middle of a crowd. Hardly anyone save Hara or their immediate companions seemed to want to have anything to do with him (nasty mage from Tevinter that he was), so he considered it safe to broach the topic with her.

He started innocently, of course. Innocent enough.

“How is the blessed Herald of Andraste on this fine, freezing morning?” He’d asked on their eighth day of travel. “Or are you her Reincarnation now? It is _so_ difficult to keep up with the things the Chantry folk say about you, you know.”

“First, I don’t care how badly you looked a week ago—I _will_ still hit you,” she muttered, glaring up at him with narrowed amber orbs, a prominent furrow between her brows. “And second, I’ll be much better once we get these people to safety. Solas estimates another three to four days of travel before we arrive in Skyhold.” Hara’s face contorted in an odd expression, as though she hadn’t meant to bring up the apostate and hastened to change the subject. “And how are you, Dorian?”

“Fine, fine, of course,” he’d replied, waving dismissively. He _was_ fine, in fact, had recovered quite nicely thanks to the enhanced lyrium potions Solas had concocted with Adan before the fall of Haven. “And how fares our Fade expert?”

Hara stiffened considerably next to him. “Busy,” she said, as though it were a complete sentence.

“So I’ve heard,” Dorian whispered conspiratorially, twirling one corner of his mustache with what he was sure was a dashing smile.

“I should check on Flissa and the others in the infirmary wagon,” Hara said in response, her mouth a hard, thin line as she made to quicken her pace.

“Listen,” Dorian said, placing a hand upon her shoulder to stop her from hurrying away from him. “Harellan,” he tried, and he saw her eyes widen considerably, as though she hardly expected him to call her by what he assumed was her full name.

“He seems to care a great deal about you,” Dorian continued before he could convince himself otherwise, “And while I hardly approve of his frankly _dismal_ fashion sense… Well, if you have feelings for him, I want you to know that—as your _friend_ —“ The word tasted strange in his mouth, unusual but not entirely unpleasant, as though it could be the truth about this wisp of an elf next to him—“I think you should allow yourself some happiness.” 

There was something so surprised, unguarded, and completely genuine about her smile just then that it knocked the wind out of him.

He hadn’t seen an expression like that since Felix had fallen ill. They’d still been in Tevinter then; Dorian had suggested they sneak out behind his father’s back out for an evening’s diversion at the theatre. Alexius would’ve never allowed it—cheap booze, tobacco smoke, and impossibly attractive young men were hardly an approved part of his only son’s strict treatment regimen. They’d done it anyway and the look on Felix’s face that night was worth every ounce of his father’s anger.

The look on her face now was worth the frozen slog to rejoin them, worth the uncertainty of calling her _friend_. She did not say anything, but the way she smiled at him was enough that he knew she’d taken his words to heart.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Dorian huffed with feigned offense, “Before Solas sees you, assumes you have fallen for me instead, and brings the wrath of an ancient Elvhen god down upon our heads.”

And she laughed, her voice high and clear as a bell, and he knew it was true.

He would spend the next four days deflecting (and when that failed, rudely interrupting) any conversation about their relationship.

That was what friends were for.

 


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ch-ch-ch-ch-changeeees! tuuuurn and face the strange! 
> 
> xx camp

They arrived in Skyhold on the morning of their twelfth day of travel, and Hara had not stopped moving since they set foot beyond its massive gates. It was as sprawling, awe-inspiring, and impressive as Solas had described.

It also needed a truly phenomenal amount of work before it would fully fit the Inquisition’s purposes, not the least of which including a good, old-fashioned scrubbing.

Once the refugees were safely behind Skyhold’s gates, Hara set herself to work doing the most mundane job she could imagine: mucking out an ancient albeit quite sturdy stable alongside Blackwall and Master Dennet. She steadfastly ignored Josephine’s protests about her involvement in the matter— _My lady, surely you have other, more pressing matters to attend—I assure you Josephine, I do not—But Commander Cullen and the Seeker—I repeat, Josephine, I do not_.

She left Josephine to explain her absence and threw herself into the mindless work of shoveling old, dirty hay out of the stable’s many stalls and replacing it with clean bedding for their herd. A surprising number of horses had survived the fall of Haven, including the dapple grey Hara often rode, the white stallion Solas favored, and Bull’s massive Asaarash. She was sad to hear that Varric’s pony had broken its leg in their retreat from Haven, and she felt strangely guilty as she considered the pony’s demise. Perhaps it had died out of spite, keen to avoid the dapple grey’s incessant biting, which she had treacherously encouraged (and rewarded); perhaps it had received one chomp too many and had chosen the Void instead.

 _Ridiculous_ , she hold herself as they finished up the stables, _Best keep busy before you lose your mind entirely_. She clapped Blackwall on the shoulder, thanked him for his help, and waved goodbye to Dennet as she left in search of another job.

She found the Iron Bull, Sera, and Adan setting up a makeshift infirmary in the lower courtyard and unloading the few supplies they’d managed to salvage from the apothecary into a large tent she assumed housed their wounded. 

“How can I help?” Hara called by way of greeting as Adan hefted a crate of supplies out of a wagon near the tent’s entrance.

“We’re unloading,” Adan explained, as though this were not perfectly obvious.

“I can see that,” Hara replied with a grin, her arms extended so that he might pass the burden to her. “Where should I put this?” Adan handed her the crate of supplies and pointed her in the direction of the healer’s tent with his chin, narrowly ducking an airborne crate Sera had flung out of the cart and into the Iron Bull’s arms.

And so she lost herself in more mundane work, her arms aching with the effort of unloading the apothecary’s supplies into the healer’s tent. Adan had instructed them to separate his ingredients and potions into two, simple categories: _Dangerous_ and _Less Dangerous_. The simple work was like a salve for her nerves and Hara found solace in the minimal thought the task required.

Beyond one (remotely) relaxed conversation with Dorian, she’d spent most of their journey to Skyhold deep in thought. She agonized time and time again over their losses, worried over what would become of the Inquisition once they reached the fortress, and brooded over what to do about her relationship—if it was, indeed, a relationship—with Solas.

He’d given her plenty of space after that fateful morning and she’d returned the favor as best she could. She was sure no one (beyond Varric) would’ve suspected anything serious had happened between the two if Sera hadn’t noticed such a little gesture between them, something she had barely registered herself until the archer shouted a number of lewd accusations at them. It was her fault, really, that anyone knew at all. If she’d just kept her cool, waved away her allegations with a sigh or a scoff, then, well… They’d have been left to consider things on _their_ terms. But no, she hadn’t done that: she’d turned beet red, curse her expressive face, and it had all been downhill from there. She had hardly spoken to Solas beyond discussions that were strictly necessary since then.

Hara was relieved to set aside her worries for a time, to simply be of some use, to lose herself in a task that was at once repetitive and strenuous and relaxing. In fact, the only thing she paid much attention to was whether or not Sera was likely to jostle a container of something explosive. She had just pulled herself from her reverie as she watched the archer reach for a crate of something presumably belonging in Adan’s _Dangerous_ pile.

“I’ll get that one,” Hara said, shooing Sera away from an oversized crate stuffed in the corner of the wagon. Someone had scrawled the word _CAUTION_ across the lid and, given Adan’s penchant for concocting things that exploded on impact, she figured she ought to keep the archer away from it at all costs lest they risk life and limb.

Sera mocked a pout. “What, don’t think I can lift it? Just because I’m not swingin’ tools like you and Bull doesn’t mean I’m all noodly!”

“Swinging tools,” Bull repeated, the tone of his voice low and conspiratorial. He waggled his eyebrows dramatically at the archer and Hara let out a long-suffering sigh.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Varric, you know,” Hara chastised the Qunari as she hefted the box in her arms, lips pursed but her tone of voice still light. “And it’s not that, Sera. I think this one explodes on impact.”

“Explodes?” Sera repeated, a crease between her brows and an almost childlike glimmer in her eyes.

“Yes, _explodes_ ,” Hara clarified, “And given your method for unloading has largely involved haphazardly flinging supplies off this wagon and into Bull’s arms, I thought I’d save us the trouble of death by detonation and do it myself.”

“Oi, Adan!” Sera shouted by way of non-reply, and the potion master turned to face her with an expectant look, his face red with the strain of lifting a particularly hefty box. “What’s in that one?”

“Antivan fire,” Adan explained, his face split into a wide grin underneath his impressive beard. “A grenade, it is. Chuck it at an enemy and it’ll catch ‘em in a blaze.”

“Wicked,” Sera murmured, and fell strangely silent for a long moment. Hara could almost hear the gears turning in her brain before the archer finally asked, “Know what you need, yeah?” Her eyes were twinkling madly in a way that was altogether disconcerting.

“What’s that, lass?” Adan asked as soon as he’d divested himself of another enormous crate, his breathing labored as he wiped his brow with the back of one hairy hand.

“Bees,” Sera replied, eyes as big as saucers as she closed the distance between them to stare up into the apothecary’s face with intensity. “If you can bottle fire, you can bottle _bees_.”

“Bees?” Adan repeated, a furrow between his brows and one hand upon his chin. He looked pensive as he turned the word over in his mind, as though this were a novel idea worth considering with utmost care.

“Beeeeees,” Sera parroted, and the way she drew out the word was truly awe-inspiring. “You know! Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz, ahhhh, _death!_ ” She cackled madly and could’ve only looked more dastardly if she’d rubbed her hands together in villainous anticipation.

“Beeeeees,” Adan repeated once more, the same astonished inflection in his voice as he stared back at Sera. “Come, lass. Let’s talk,” He said, drawing Sera out of the healer’s tent and into the courtyard to discuss a potential foray into insect-based explosives.

Just as Sera and Adan exited the tent, Cassandra entered, a determined look upon her face: brow furrowed, face drawn, as though she’d been thinking about or discussing something intensely for far longer than she cared to.

The Seeker’s eyes roved about the healer’s tent and the depth of her frown increased until her eyes landed on Hara, covered in sweat and grime as she stood staring, one hand upon her chin as she observed Adan’s crates. She had just been wondering whether she ought to reclassify a crate of blood lotus as _Dangerous_ given its propensity for causing hallucinations. When she weighed that decision alongside the crate of Antivan fire grenades, well… Perhaps they were _Less Dangerous_ after all. 

“Herald! There you are,” Cassandra called, a look of relief washing over her features as she spotted her quarry.

Hara wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her forearm and cleaned her hands on her breeches. “Have you been looking for me, Seeker?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Cassandra confirmed, a hint of exasperation in her voice, “Josephine told me you were with Master Dennet and Warden Blackwall in the stables.”

“I was,” Hara clarified, and she felt an odd sensation creep along her spine completely independent of the beads of sweat running down her back. “After we finished settling the horses, I came here to help Adan settle the wounded and unload his supplies from the apothecary. Do you need me?”

“You’re wanted in the upper courtyard, Herald,” Cassandra said, and Hara got the distinct feeling the Seeker was holding something back. “Come, walk with me.”

Hara frowned, loathe to leave Bull, Sera, and Adan to finish unloading and organizing their supplies without her assistance. “Is it urgent?” Hara asked in response, her eyes still fixed on the crates they’d unloaded but had yet to classify or unpack.

“Yes,” Cassandra replied, and her tone brooked no argument.

“Alright,” Hara conceded, and Cassandra’s only response was a short nod before she spun on her heel and exited the healer’s tent the way she’d came.

“Bull,” Hara started, as she stared after the Seeker’s rapidly retreating form.

“Yeah, Boss?” The Qunari responded. His eye was fixed on the Seeker as well, and there was something in the lines of his mouth that made her feel incredibly uneasy.

“Make sure they don’t bring down the fortress while I’m gone,” Hara said, and she tried to infuse some light and laughter into her tone, but the serious expression on Bull’s face coupled with Cassandra’s vague orders had soured her mood entirely. She had no idea why, but she felt as if something big were coming, something the Ben-Hassrath had anticipated but about which she remained completely ignorant.

“You got it, Boss,” Bull said, and he mocked a salute in her direction. “Best see what they want you for. Find me for a drink later. The Chargers are buying.”

The promise of libations did nothing to lift her mood. 

* * *

 _Your leader! Your Herald!_ Commander Cullen shouted as Leliana thrust a monstrous sword into her hand. All she could think to say as they resolutely placed the weight of the world upon her shoulders was that she would accept this responsibility because it was right, and all she could hear as the crowd shouted up at her was her grandfather’s voice. _Come, da’len. We finish what we’ve started_.

She’d accepted the mantle, held it together for the refugees from Haven, tolerated the wide-eyed, worshipful gazes they’d affixed her with as she stood upon the battlements and allowed them to brand her with another moniker she neither wanted nor deserved: _Your Inquisitor!_

Thoughts racing, her unconscious mind commanded her to seek out someone grounded, someone diametrically opposed to grandiosity, to posturing, to _bullshit_.  Hara managed to find Bull in the aftermath and spat the question out before she’d registered she was searching for the archer.

“Where is Sera?” Hara breathed by way of greeting as she stumbled upon Bull and his Chargers, drinking and boisterous and carefree, sprawled out across a stretch of grass below the courtyard. She knew she must’ve looked as panicked as she felt.

“Up there,” Krem said, gesturing to a faintly glowing balcony on the second floor of a weathered building behind them.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” Hara said, and in her distraction she missed the confusion written all over the lieutenant’s face.

Hara pushed her way into the building and quickly ascended a rickety staircase, following the faint glow of candlelight until she found the archer in a cloistered room with bay windows; Sera was sprawled out on the floor with her pipe in her mouth, lazily blowing smoke rings up towards the ceiling.

“Oi, Herald,” Sera greeted, waving her pipe tantalizingly at her as she entered the room uninvited.

“Herald,” Hara repeated bitterly, plopping unceremoniously down on the floor beside the smoking maiden. “And more. I wish they’d stop giving me names that don’t fucking belong to me.”

“Mmm, yeah,” Sera agreed, shifting from where she lay on the floor to get a better look at Hara’s pale, panicked face. “You don’t look so good. Want a puff?”

Hara seriously considered it for a long moment before ultimately declining the archer’s pipe.

“Alright, suit yourself. Your choice,” Sera said, placing the pipe back in her mouth and drawing an impressive amount of smoke into her lungs, holding it for a moment, and exhaling a large cloud of smoke into the air above her. “Not so good at choices lately, you,” the archer mumbled once her lungs were clear, her tone more vitriolic than Hara had ever heard it.

“Choices?” Hara repeated, confusion written plainly across her features as she stared at her smoking companion.

“ _Choices_ ,” Sera stressed, eyes wide, a long-suffering tone in her voice. “Mountains? Magic? _Mages_?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust, as though it pained her to spell this out for her.

 _Choices, indeed_ , Hara thought bitterly, suddenly regretting having sought out Sera as a salve for her shot nerves.

“I’m sorry I scared you, and I’m sorry we were waylaid in the Frostbacks for a fortnight, but we’re out, and we’re safe,” Hara said by way of reply. She wasn’t sure whether to touch the _magic_ and the _mages_ on Sera’s list of grievances.

“Sure, we’re out,” Sera replied, gesturing vaguely at the four walls surrounding them, “Not so sure about _safe_.” Sera said this last word dubiously, as though it were hardly the world she’d use to describe their current situation.

“It’s worth reminding you that the mages are people, too,” Hara responded, her tone firm, “ _People_ people, remember?” This was hardly the conversation she’d wanted to have when she’d sought out the archer, and her patience was wearing thin.

“Riiiight,” Sera replied, her tone practically dripping with sarcasm. “ _They’re_ people.”

“What you have had me do, Sera? Leave them bound in slavery to Alexius? They were suffering and we were in a position to help them! You and I both know things would be exponentially worse if we hadn’t done what we did.”

“Not _them_ ,” Sera rebutted, her tone louder and harsher than it had been before, “ _Him!_ ”

“Him?” Hara repeated, her voice thin as the clouds parted in her mind and realization clicked into place. She should’ve known where this was going, given the visceral reaction the archer had to the notion that she and Solas were something _more_.

“Yes, _him!_ He’s bad for you, yeah?” Sera spat. “Got his head stuck up a thousand years ago. You? Got to be living right here, right now.”

“I _am_ right here, right now, Sera,” Hara hissed in reply, the anger bubbling up in her chest before she realized the archer’s disapproval had affected her so deeply. “Or did you miss me with that monstrosity in my hand earlier, being held publicly responsible for the fate of the fucking world? With all those people staring up at me like I’m the answer to their prayers?”

“So what,” Sera scoffed, “‘You’re _it_ now, yeah? _Big_ ,” Sera explained, her face contorted in an expression that could only be read as exasperation. “And they’re _right_. You _got_ to put things back to normal. You’re big whether you like it or not, and you got responsibili-thingies.”

Hara almost laughed at the absurdity of Sera lecturing her about responsibility but thought better of it, managed to bite back a sarcastic “Ha!” before she made the situation between them exponentially worse. “I know,” she said instead.

“Whatever then,” Sera said dismissively, pushing herself into a seated position to clean the bowl of her pipe and reload it with more dried elfroot. “S’all’s I’m saying is, careful who you risk your breeches for.”

The frown on Hara’s face intensified and she felt a hollowness creep into her chest. She liked Sera, _really_ liked her, even from the beginning. She knew she’d upset her when she’d disappeared after the escape from Haven, and she knew she and Solas were hardly friends, but… She thought they’d been on firmer ground with one another.

“Noted,” Hara snapped. She left Sera’s quarters without another word, feeling considerably worse than she had before. 

Mindlessly, she climbed a third set of stairs in the weathered building, wandering upwards with the vague notion that she would feel freer, less burdened underneath the night’s sky, where she could breathe the fresh mountain air and clear the oppressive feeling from her lungs.

Hara found herself in a strange room, nothing more than an attic, really—quiet, dusty, forgotten to time, piles of yellowed paper scattered in one corner of the room. As her eyes roved the attic, she jumped, startled as she noticed a young man leaning inconspicuously against one wall. Hara wracked her brain for him, knew she knew him from somewhere, or at least had seen that impossibly large hat elsewhere before… His hat. _I can’t come in if you don’t open!_

The memory of Haven’s downfall crashed over her so suddenly she could not breathe; she struggled to pull a breath into her lungs and before she had time to register the young man moving, he placed two strangely weightless hand on each of her shoulders.

“Breathe,” the young man commanded, and as Hara looked into his icy blue eyes, she felt the breath rush back into her lungs.

“Cole,” Hara exhaled, and it was as though he’d breathed his name back into her memory at the same time.

The young man looked altogether shocked to be called by that name, and Hara felt doubt flicker through her mind. _Perhaps she’d gotten it wrong?_

“It is Cole, isn’t it?” Hara asked, and as her gaze met his, she had the oddest feeling that she should be unsettled by this young man’s weightless hands upon her shoulders, that the conversation she’d just finished with Sera should be lodged somewhere in her throat along with her regret, her anger, her disappointment, her fear. Instead, she was calm—calmer than she might’ve been in her whole life as she stared up into the boy’s pale eyes.

“You remembered me?” The boy asked, a shy smile upon his face, uncertainty clearly visible in his eyes.

“Yes, of course,” Hara replied, and the calm she felt before wavered as she remembered how she knew him. “From Haven. You came to warn us about Corypheus.”

“Yes,” Cole replied, his voice wistful as he stared into the distance at a point over her shoulder, not quite meeting her gaze. “I remember you, too.” And then his eyes were fixed on hers, his gaze so intense Hara found herself unable to breathe once more. “Frightened and fiery and fierce, flung yourself into the foray to afford them a fighting chance. _Ir abelas, ir abelas, ir abelas. It is my fault. I could not save them._ ”

Hara felt her heart leap into her throat as he depicted how she’d felt during the battle for Haven, repeated verbatim words she’d whispered through choked sobs to Solas, words she’d wept into his chest after she’d stumbled, burning through the darkness into their camp and into his arms.

Hara felt as though he’d slapped her, as though he’d pulled the thoughts right of her mind and spoken them aloud. “How did you know?”

“I see it on your face and I hear it in your soul,” Cole explained, and his face was contorted as though he were experiencing a deep pain, as though he were feeling what she felt in that moment and beyond. “Aching, angry, accountable. I do not know what it means but I feel it in your heart. You are… Sorry? But you did nothing wrong?

Hara could not contain the bitter, angry caricature of a laugh that spilled from her mouth just then, could not stand against a powerful wave of self-hatred that crashed over her as this boy tried to assuage her of her guilt. She searched for words to explain the depth of his inaccuracy and was found wanting.

“I’m sorry, that was wrong!” Cole apologized, “Let me try again,” he rushed out, his forehead pressed against hers as he stared down into her eyes. “Forget,” he commanded.

“How could I?” Hara hissed through clenched teeth, staring up into the boy’s eyes, matching the intensity of his gaze. “How could I ever forget what I did to them? How I failed to save them? How they died, bloodied and red and wrong underneath waves of Corypheus’ forces? How they were slaughtered underneath the breath of a dragon? How they burned for me? How could I _ever_ forget?!”

“It’s all wrong,” Cole whispered in non-response, his voice panicked, thin, as he reached for her hands.

Hara pulled away from him sharply and found she could not breathe once more, and her marked palm began to ache, to burn, her heart beating so madly she felt as though it were about to burst from her chest. She grit her teeth against the burning in her skin and clenched her hands into fists at her side, her nails pressing crescent moons into her skin from the intensity with which she squeezed her hands shut. Her marked palm burst into flame, bright and hot and angry, and she fell to her knees, clutching the blazing appendage to her chest.

Cole stared down at her open-mouthed, panic and fright written all over his young face. “I tried to make you forget!” He cried, the pitch of his voice higher, betraying his panic. “It didn’t work! Why didn’t it work? It always works!”

His anxiety added to her own and the blaze in her palm burned brighter still. She knew she had to get away from him, to find someone, anyone who might know how to calm the inferno in her palm.

She pushed her way past the panicked boy and out of the attic, flung herself out onto Skyhold’s battlements with his name already on her lips.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OOOHHHHHH SHIIIIII-
> 
> xx camp

“Dorian!” Hara cried, her voice high-pitched, almost strangled, breathless with hysteria as she skidded to a halt before him.

She’d been hunting for him madly in the keep proper, sprinting up and down staircases in search of the Tevinter as terrified civilians and soldiers alike shrunk from her flaming, panicked form. It was sheer luck the hour had grown so late, that there were not more people around to witness her terror at having wrenched a mad, uncontrollable magic from her skin for the fourth time in her life. She finally found him tucked away in an alcove on Skyhold’s second level, staring disapprovingly at a shelf full of ancient, dusty books.

“Harellan?” Dorian queried, and he looked distinctly ruffled as he took in her partially aflame form. “You’ve done it!” He cried, sloshing a glass of something red in his hand in his enthusiasm, apparently pleased that she’d twisted magical fire out of her aching hand before he took in the horrified look upon her face. “Except you didn’t mean to,” he intoned, lips pursed and the concern in his voice evident.

Dorian abandoned his glass on a haphazardly stacked tower of books before extending his hand in a nonverbal request for her to proffer her own for examination. Hara grit her teeth against the pain and took in a shaky, gasping breath as Dorian stared down at her marked palm, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on the appendage in front of him.

“How long has it been like this?” Dorian asked, attempting to pass his hand over her own, some strange, purple magic pulsating from his fingertips against the fire in her palm. He drew his hand sharply back from her own with a hiss of pain as the flames licked against the pads of his fingers.

“Ten minutes, maybe twenty,” Hara bit out, struggling to keep her breathing even, “I don’t know! I can’t get it to stop!”

“We should send for Solas,” the altus said, the tone of his voice hesitant and at once firm, a perfect dichotomy. Perhaps he did not want to admit that he had no idea what to do about the inferno she’d conjured in her marked palm, or perhaps he’d noticed the distance between them that followed Sera’s very public and very loud accusation about their relationship.

“No!” Hara shouted, and she had no logic, no words to explain why she did not want to see him.

“Alright, calm down!” Dorian shouted back, and it seemed as though her panic was contagious, “Give me a moment to think!”

Dorian gaped silently at her hand, his eyes darting back and forth from her palm to her face; he was wild-eyed and searching and obviously unsettled by her agonized expression, distraught by the soft hisses of pain she could not bite back as the fire raged in her hand.

“Dorian, please! Do something!” Hara managed through gritted teeth, blinking back unwelcome tears that pricked the corners of her eyes.

Dorian gave a shout of frustration, reached for his abandoned glass of wine, and upended the entire goblet onto her flaming, aching palm.

Her mind went blank.

Hara was neither thinking nor feeling as she stared down at her wine-soaked palm, rivulets of Tevinter red dripping lazily, almost extravagantly, from her aching hand onto what was once undoubtedly a very expensive carpet. The sheer absurdity of the situation was enough to quiet her mind, to slow the racing of her heart, and with an almost pathetic hiss, the fire in her hand spluttered and died. Hara sucked in a great gasp of air as a feeling of relief flooded through her, the breath caught in her throat as she stared up at Dorian, wide-eyed and speechless.

“You doused my hand with wine,” Hara finally said once she found her voice again. “You put out the fire in my hand… with _wine_.”

“Alcohol is the answer to life’s most pressing questions, dearest,” Dorian replied, and though his tone was flippant, it was obvious he was as shocked about the outcome as she.

“What on earth possessed you to do that?” Hara queried, her forehead wrinkled as she stared up at him in obvious confusion.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Dorian said by way of non-explanation, “But I do know that you’ve got a feelings problem on your hands.” It seemed he hadn’t meant to make the pun but she saw delight blossom across his features nevertheless as he realized his witticism.

“Ha,” Hara mocked a laugh, “You are _hilarious_. What do you mean I have a ‘feelings problem’?”

“I _mean_ ,” Dorian stressed, “That you obviously lose control over your magical potential when you lose control of your emotions.” He handed Hara the bottle of Tevinter red that sat forgotten and uncorked on the floor beside the bookshelf. “Drink this. It’ll help. It utterly drowns the nasty little blighters.”

“I don’t drink wine,” Hara argued as she stared at the bottle gripped loosely in her right hand.

“You do now,” Dorian said, and his tone was so flat, so distinctly unamused that it brooked no argument.

Hara lifted the bottle to her mouth and took a great swig of the horrible stuff, forced herself to swallow the sickly sweet concoction with a pained look upon her face. “Disgusting,” she choked out as she passed the bottle back to him.

“I take offense to that!” Dorian huffed before taking a long pull straight from the bottle. He wiped his mouth fussily before continuing his diatribe. “This is an inordinately expensive vintage straight from the Imperium itself! Bottled at least a century ago and smuggled at great risk from a cellar I found in this nasty place. It was positively riddled with spiders!”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Hara sighed and accepted the bottle he proffered once more. “Down the hatch,” she muttered before managing another gulp.

* * * 

Solas awoke suddenly to someone’s knuckles rapping out an obnoxious cadence against his door, a deep frown upon his face as he watched Wisdom’s visage disappear before his eyes as he was pulled from the Fade. He sat up from his makeshift bed and drug the back of one hand sleepily across his eyes as the knocking on his door intensified.

Solas took a deep breath, conjured a half dozen magelights with a wave of his hand and stumbled towards the door, hands searching for the doorknob with one eye opened. He managed to find the knob and opened the door slowly, the hinges creaking softly as he pushed it open to reveal whomever had been tapping out a mad rhythm on the wooden surface.

“Dorian,” Solas declared, his tone thin and impatient as he took in the sight of the distinctly ruffled Tevinter in front of him. His mustache was oddly bristled and it looked as though he’d been vigorously twirling it on both ends for the past several hours. “It is late. What do you need?”

“Oh, me? Nothing at all, my dear, shirtless man,” Dorian declared, an irritating nonchalance to his manner as he leaned presumptuously into his doorframe, one arm resting haphazardly in his entryway and the other stretched oddly behind him as he stared at Solas’ bare chest.

“Then why are you here?” Solas inquired, ignoring the Tevinter’s goading comment about his state of undress and pinching the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb to stave off what was sure to become an intense ache in his temples.

“Because I am not remotely prepared to allow our dear Harellan to crawl into bed with me, and she’s hardly in a state wherein she might be left to her own devices without potentially disastrous consequences.”

Solas blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching into the ghost of a frown. _Harellan_? He hadn’t known she’d shared her name with the altus. Solas felt a strange twinge in his chest as he turned this piece of information over in his mind. It was illogical to imagine she would abstain from using her given name, of course—but somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he had conjured the notion that she reserved it for _him_.

He did not have time to mull this piece of information over, given Dorian had just stepped aside to reveal the unsteady form of the woman in question.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” Harellan sighed, her cheeks a dusty pink, the tinge betraying embarrassment, intoxication, or perhaps both. She affixed Dorian with a spectacularly disapproving look—withering, truly, and it reminded him of the night in Haven when he’d tried to suggest she slow down or stop for the night after he’d pried the story of her vallaslin from her ruby lips. She somehow managed to look simultaneously chagrined that she’d been brought to his door, visibly drunk in the dead of night. “I told him not to bother you. He doesn’t listen well.”

“Deaf in one ear, darling,” Dorian quipped, gesturing to the left side of his head with a ridiculous twirl of one hand.

“Liar,” Harellan accused, her brows knit in irritation, though her tone was gentle and she could not reign in the fondness in her eyes as she stared at the Tevinter. She attempted to push the altus with one hand and Solas had to stop himself from reaching for her as she swayed unsteadily in the motion’s aftermath.

“Lush,” Dorian countered, his tone sing-song as he danced away from her clumsy push.

“While I assure you both there is nothing I enjoy more than listening to an inebriated argument amongst friends,” Solas snapped, his impatience obvious as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger once more, “I am somewhat confused as to my role in this situation.”

“Why, Solas, it’s unlike you to miss such simple detail!” Dorian cried, and the murderous look Harellan gave him in response was almost frightening. “ _She_ is drunk and flighty, and _you_ are sober and omnipresent. You’ll watch her like a Hawke,” Dorian explained, a sardonic smile upon his face as he basked in his own cleverness. “These so-called heroes often disappear at inopportune times, and I am not above telling Cassandra that you were the last to see her if she goes missing.”

“I was _joking_ ,” Harellan snapped, “I’m not actually going to disappear under the cover of night. It is a strategical impossibility thanks to our Spymaster.”

“ _And_ you promised,” Dorian intoned, his face serious, a line between his brows as he glowered at her.

“And I promised,” Harellan sighed, her concession punctuated with a roll of her eyes.

“Alright then, it’s settled! Have an utterly fantastic night, you two,” Dorian teased, waggling his eyebrows suggestively as he shoved Harellan through the doorway and into his quarters before forcefully shutting the door behind him.

The depth of Solas’ frown increased as he stared at the wooden surface the altus had slammed in his face mere moments before. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, avoiding the inevitability of facing the woman the Tevinter had thrust into his quarters.

They had been strategically avoiding one another for the better part of a week; he was unsure what conclusion she had come to regarding their intimacy in the Frostbacks and he himself was undecided as to whether it was worth the risk, worth the the heartache when he ultimately left her when the time was right: once Corypheus was defeated, his orb was reclaimed, and he was in a position to return to his plans to bring down the Veil.

Solas sighed and pushed the thoughts from his mind. There might be no need to consider these inevitabilities, given they had not yet discussed the situation between them. He turned to face her and found her staring at the floor with intensity, rigid and silent as she examined what appeared to be a pair of poorly knit socks on her feet.

“An explanation as to your current state is in order,” Solas remarked without much steam. Harellan lifted her gaze from her feet to meet his eyes, and he saw an unfettered vulnerability there. _Careful_ , he thought, and gestured for Harellan to take a seat at a chair he’d obtained for the desk he’d drug into the small but well-situated sleeping quarters he’d claimed near the rotunda earlier that day.

He’d always loved this space: in fact, he’d meant to paint the rotunda in another life, to chronicle the raising of the Veil and the liberation of the People from the clutches of the Evanuris. He was glad he had not done it now. There were other uses for the bare walls and as he gazed at the uncharacteristically quiet woman in front of him, he had the impulsive desire to cover them all with her. Solas shook his head slightly to refocus himself. He knew he should be scolding her, but he found he had neither the energy nor the desire to do so.

“I caught fire again,” Harellan finally answered in the silence, her tone flat as she stared at her marked palm.

 _Ah_. He should’ve known. It was only a matter of time before it happened again.

Wordlessly, Solas took her hand in his and examined it, ignoring the heavy thud of his heart against his ribs at the sensation of her skin against his. Harellan’s hand was red, angry, wounded, and Solas could feel the magic of the Anchor roiling beneath her skin: her aura was strong and intoxicating, the mana practically begging to be used. Despite her magic’s heady presence, Solas had difficultly focusing on it. This was the first time he’d touched her in days and the warmth of her hand in his was like a rush of relief, as though he could finally pull a full breath of air into his lungs after days of suffocation.

“Tell me what happened,” Solas requested. He commanded himself to concentrate on her words to stop himself from thinking about their closeness, to disregard a half-formed question in his mind: _How might her tongue taste coated with sweet red wine?_

“Dorian says I have a ‘feelings problem.’ I think _he_ has a feelings problem, given the sheer amount we drank in an effort to drown them afterwards,” Harellan rambled as she gazed up at him, unkempt and beautiful in the dim glow of the magelights he’d conjured. “Did you know they have contests in Tevinter? _Drinking_ contests. What a ridiculous waste, extravagance for the sake of extravagance. You know, he says most participants can’t even hold their alcohol, so it truly is wasted when they—”

“Harellan, focus,” Solas chastised. The comment was meant as much for himself as it was for her.

“I am focused, Solas,” Harellan argued, and the petulance in her tone and on her face made her somehow more endearing. “I’m telling you, Dorian has a feelings problem. We really ought to take better care of him. I know I’m awful and distant and vague, but he needs someone. Sera, too. Probably. Maybe not me and definitely not you, but _someone_. There’s something underneath all that preening and bluster.”

“Harellan,” Solas repeated, trying his best to disregard the altogether disconcerting feeling of _belonging_ as she included him in half-formed, vague plans to care for her companions, declared him to be part of a _we,_ “Focus. Your hand—I need to know what happened.”

“I can’t focus on why it happened or it’ll happen again,” Harellan insisted, “So I need to focus on them instead. It’s easier and safer and less likely to result in spontaneous combustion.” 

“I cannot help you if you will not explain it!” Solas countered, and he vaguely registered his frustration with the inability to help her had caused his voice to rise to a near shout. He both loved and hated how she undid him at times.

“I panicked!” Harellan shouted back, and with a glower she ripped her marked hand out of his grasp. “I was with Cole and he talking about Haven as though he’d lived through it from _inside my head_ , and I panicked and I couldn’t breathe and there it was: magical fire I couldn’t control, angry and hot and completely fucking terrifying! And I couldn’t come to you so I went to Dorian and—“

“Why?” Solas demanded, half inquiry, half accusation as the question spilled from his traitorous mouth.

Her words had stoked an odd feeling in his chest, something he hadn’t felt with any regularity in ages upon counting: jealousy. Jealousy and possessiveness, and they were ugly emotions, entirely unwarranted and beneath them both, but he could not stop himself. Solas ignored his better judgment and reached for her again, laced his fingers with hers as he’d done in the center of Val Royeaux months ago. It seemed the action shocked her into silence and she stared up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted as though she were working out what to say next.

“What?” Harellan finally breathed, the line between her brows betraying her confusion.

“Why couldn’t you come to me?” Solas asked, and he enunciated each syllable of each word in an effort to keep himself from raising his voice again.

“Isn’t it obvious, Solas?” Harellan challenged, but her tone was quiet, hushed, the words barely a whisper.

“It is not,” he lied. He needed to hear the words from her mouth, to watch her lips form words of rejection, to feel her reduce what had happened between them to an ill-considered comfort that she had no interest or intention in continuing.

Harellan gave a great sigh and her shoulders slumped, as though it were a considerable burden to explain herself, to give language to the reasons she had not sought him in the present and would not seek him in the future. She was silent for a long moment and she had a complex look upon her face, as though she were calculating the risks and benefits of vulnerability, weighing the inevitabilities of her response with a measured hand.

“Because I am in love with you,” Harellan whispered, and he could see the truth of her admission in her eyes, could feel the depth of her emotion in the softness of her response.

“And because you lie to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL???????


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **crossroads**. _noun_. a point at which a crucial decision must be made that will have far-reaching consequences.

Silence.

Complete and utter silence, and as Hara took in the unsettled expression on Solas’ face, she felt the weight of rejection settle like a stone in the pit of her stomach.

 _Guard your heart, da’len, for love makes fools of us all_ , and she felt foolish indeed. Foolish and stupid, ashamed and naive for risking the path of vulnerability, for expecting that this could’ve ended any other way but badly. Hara had the mad urge to laugh but the noise was caught in her throat, choked on a shaky breath she’d pulled into her lungs.

It was too much, too much for him to stare at her, lips parted, brow furrowed, eyes wild and unsettled as he allowed her confession to fester in the silence between them. 

She had to leave, had to get away from him before the horrible feeling of her breaking heart wrenched more mad magic from her skin. Hara tugged her marked hand out of his, felt his fingers slip through hers and would not allow herself to wonder if this were the last time she would touch him. She had almost made it out his door when a panicked plea spilled from his mouth.

“Harellan, please!”

She froze, as still as if he’d wrapped a spell of ice around her frame.

“Wait,” Solas whispered, and there was something in his voice that stole the breath from her lungs: something wounded, damaged, and raw, something that echoed the ache in her chest where her heart should’ve been.

It was the inevitability of loss. It was Wycome and the clan, Redcliffe and Haven, and she wondered how many times she would have to feel this way, how many times _he_ had felt this way—if love and loss were destined to remain inseparable constructs in her heart, her mind, her memory. If they sang the same for him.

“Why?” Hara sighed, more exhale than inquiry, “We do nothing but dance circles around one another, Solas, just like we’ve done from the start. Approach, retreat, avoid,” she bit out as she turned to face him once more, and she could not stop herself now that the words had shaken loose. “Gods, I am so _broken_ that it is easier to stare down an archdemon than to tell you how I feel!” 

“Broken?” Solas repeated, his tone suddenly both harsh and incredulous, and it seemed she had given them both grave insult at the mere suggestion. “No, Harellan! You are _real_.”

“Oh, Solas, let me count the ways!” Hara half-shouted, embittered and angry. She could not stop herself from reaching for him, from taking his hands in hers once more, as if evidence of her failures might seep through her palms and into his skin. 

She almost lost her nerve at the shaking of his hands.

“I was nothing before the Conclave, and now I am whatever I am asked to be,” Hara managed, her voice lower, strained as she struggled to find words to describe how she felt. “It’s this mark, this magic, this _mantle_. Inquisitor,” she scoffed, and it tasted absurd and bitter and wrong in her mouth. “Don’t you see? It’s this _fortress_ , Solas. It’s the weight of the fucking world on my shoulders when I know that I am weak and wanting! And it’s not just that. It’s this _feeling_ I get when I see you dart down a path I can’t follow in the middle of a conversation. I am…” 

She choked on the words, forced a breath into her lungs and compelled herself to finish.

“I am _lost_ and slow and in love with a man who cannot stop running.” 

“You are quicker than you think,” Solas offered in response, his argument little more than a whisper. 

“Here lies Harellan, crushed underneath the weight of one man’s metaphor,” she growled in exasperation, suddenly overcome by the urge to rip her hands out of his and tug the long, straight strands of her hair into knots.

Solas’ brow was furrowed and she could see a muscle working in his jaw, clearly biting back a response with effort: perhaps straining against the inevitability of whatever he might say next.

“I am afraid,” Solas whispered, and she could hear the strain in his throat, as though it pained him to admit it, and _gods_ , she could not decide if she loved or hated the damaged, broken timbre of his voice: the most honest and unguarded thing she’d ever heard. “And I do not want to lose you.”

Hara found she could not speak, could not even breathe for the weight of his confession. She could only stare up at him, wide-eyed and breathless with her small, cold hands in his, still trembling and yet seemingly unwilling to let her go. 

“Harellan,” Solas continued softly, and now she hated that broken quality in his voice. It fisted itself around her heart and, paired with the sheer weight of vulnerability in his eyes, it was almost suffocating. It felt as if she’d broken through a dam he’d carefully constructed over years, had cracked walls that had existed for centuries—as if she might drown in the tumultuous waves of his emotion and be lost in the sea of him. “What would you have of me?”

“Everything,” Hara replied, the words spilling from her mouth as soon as she found her voice again. “I would have it all. Your past, your present, your future. Your secrets… Your truth.”

“Harellan, I—“ Solas stuttered, and it was gut-wrenching to see him so unsettled, so unsure of himself. “You must understand... I carry a burden I could not ask you to share.”

Redcliffe washed over her like rain across a windowpane, memories of his whispered _mistake_ seeping into her consciousness like liquid through broken glass. _Please, vhenan._

“What did you mean, then?” Hara demanded, “When you asked me to tell you not to make this mistake again?” 

Solas dropped her hands as though he’d been burned, and he could not hide the rattled expression on his face. “ _Ir_ _abelas_ , Harellan. It was foolish of me to speak of it.” 

“Stop it, Solas,” Hara snapped, and his expression morphed into something like shock at her harsh tone. “I cannot claim to understand as you have hardly been forthcoming, but I am going to scream if you apologize again. I might do it anyway, because _gods_ , we are _ridiculous_!” 

“Ridiculous?” Solas repeated, the line between his auburn brows prominent as he considered her, the confusion evident in his eyes.

She felt a bit like some strange and unknown creature, some specimen that demanded study, and she had to stop herself from going down that path lest memories of Minaeve’s bloody, wasted death overwhelm her. Hara pulled a long, steadying breath into her lungs and prepared herself to continue. 

“Yes, Solas: Ridiculous!” Hara replied, and she was faintly aware that she truly was shouting now, “I don’t expect secrets to hemorrhage out of you! I do not operate that way, and neither do you. And that’s the trouble with love, Solas. It demands that you are willing to have hard conversations, that you stand together against the tide of expectations and impossible choices! That you share your burdens, your secrets, your _mistakes,_ whatever they are, with someone who is willing to carry them with you!”

He was silent again, and she could hear her labored breath, loud and harsh in the relative darkness of his chambers. Waiting for his reply was almost more than she could bear.

“Is it love if one is willing to try?” Solas finally asked in response, his voice low and quiet, diametrically opposed to the vigor of the speech she had never planned to give him. 

Hara captured her lower lip between her teeth as the implications of his question washed over her. _Did he mean…?_ She exhaled. Her breath was shaky as she forced herself to focus on his question rather than what a response in the affirmative might entail.

“Yes,” Hara said, her affirmation slow, hesitant, weighted. “I think it is.” And she could not stop herself from verbalizing the question that bubbled up in her mind afterwards, the one she was unsure she wanted an answer to. “Are you?”

“It has been a long time since I… trusted someone,” Solas murmured, a faraway look in his eyes, and it seemed he needed to look past her to maintain his grip on a thread of something that threatened to unravel between his fingers. He sighed and pursed his lips together, as though he were making some grand decision, weighing the checks and balances of something she could not even begin to understand.

“But I am willing to try.”

A wave of emotion crashed over her so heavily she swore she might’ve swayed in its aftermath, and she struggled to put a name the feeling flooding through her veins. Relief? Satisfaction?

 _No_.

It was more akin to deliverance, to freedom. She knew she was going to ruin the moment between them, but she could not stop herself from asking. 

“Why?” She breathed.

“Isn’t it obvious, Harellan?” Solas challenged, and now it seemed he could not look anywhere but in her eyes; it seemed that now that he had chosen this path, he’d resolved himself to the vulnerability it entailed.

Something strange and warm blossomed in her chest as she considered his words, the same she had spoken to him mere minutes before. “It is not,” Hara replied, and she hoped it was a lie.

“Because most people act with so little understanding of the world, but you do not. Because you show a wisdom I have not seen in ages. Because you change everything,” Solas whispered. “And because losing you would…”

Solas released her hands and closed the distance between them, cupped her cheeks with his calloused, trembling hands and leaned his forehead against hers. He brushed a thumb over her lower lip and she could not breathe for the anticipation, felt as if she might turn to liquid as she gazed up into his eyes.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_ ,” Solas murmured, and he pressed his lips softly against hers.

Hara found herself smiling against the curve of his lips, the weight of his declaration like an anchor in the center of her chest; he’d planted something that belonged deep within her, something that might prevent her from washing away in the tides of an uncertain future. She snaked her arms around his neck to deepen the kiss, all tongue and teeth as the ache in her chest traveled lower. 

“Come,” Solas said, and he tugged her against his chest, leading them both backwards towards the chaise he’d claimed for a makeshift bed. “Let us continue this conversation somewhere safer.”

Hara knew he meant the Fade, and it was a measure of her trust in him that she would allow him to pull her into dreams.

She would’ve followed him to the ends of the earth.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and we're back! this one really fought with me, but i fought back. thanks for your patience if you're still here! and happy holidays to those of you who've been celebrating recently. as always, elvhen translations at end. 
> 
> xx camp

She had no memory of falling asleep, but Hara knew at once this had to be the Fade. She was still in Solas’ quarters although daylight was now streaming pleasantly through a window above the chaise that had not existed moments before.

The room itself was entirely changed beyond the makeshift bed he’d beckoned her to—it was rather more a linen closet than an a proper room now, packed with shelves upon shelves of neatly stacked, finely woven blankets, gleaming silk sheets, and quilts with intricate patterns. She allowed herself a moment to marvel at the craftsmanship, to trail her fingertips along the plush textiles and wonder what her grandfather might think of them. Somewhere beyond the window, a bird chirruped a merry tune, and the faint smell of baking bread filled her nostrils.

The scene was disconcertingly innocuous.

She had no neutral memories of the Fade, shifting and varied and frequent as her nightmares were, but this? This was altogether _pleasant_ , and an uneasy, foreboding feeling crept along her spine as she waited for the wrong to begin.

Hara took a tentative step toward the window and placed her hands upon the sill; it was much too high for her to see outside without straining. She craned her neck and stood upon her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of whatever lay beyond, had almost managed to draw herself up high enough to see outside when she felt a pair of hands grasp her waist.

Hara yelped, whirled around, and found herself face-to-face with Solas, a look of mild amusement in his eyes as she stared up at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed in alarm.

“Don’t do that!” She hissed, her admonishment punctuated with a stamp of her foot.

“My apologies,” Solas chuckled. He failed entirely to look chagrined and was clearly biting back a smile with effort. “It was not my intention to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Hara lied, a furrow between her brows and warmth creeping into her cheeks. “I’m just… uneasy here. The Fade and I aren’t exactly on friendly terms, and it’s more than a little disconcerting to carry on a lucid conversation with you in my dreams. Is this even real? Are _you_ real?”

“That is a matter of debate,” Solas said, and she would’ve hated the academic tone he affected if it weren’t punctuated with a wolfish grin. “Though I am reasonably sure that _I_ am real, yes. Would you like me to prove it?”

“I think I would, yes,” Hara replied, resolutely ignoring the warmth in her belly that blossomed when he looked at her like that. “How can I be sure that you’re _you_? Tell me something you’d only know if you were really Solas.”

“That is wise,” Solas commented, the smile on his face widening as he gave her an appraising look. “I braided your hair on the Storm Coast. It was the second time I’d offered, but the first that you accepted.”

Hara felt the color in her cheeks rise at the memory of his hands in her hair. “Yes, you did,” she confirmed. “Alright, I’m satisfied. Would you like me to do the same?”

“No, Harellan,” Solas chuckled. “I could not mistake you in the Fade.”

“Really?” Hara asked, her brows creeping up in surprise. “Why?”

“The Anchor,” Solas explained. “Magic that unique and powerful has a signature. I can feel it, as can spirits and demons—perhaps other Dreamers as well, though there are but a few.”

“Dreamers,” Hara repeated, and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth to worry at the flesh as she considered the construct. “It’s not a very common gift, is it? Strolling through other people’s dreams with full consciousness?”

“No, it is not,” Solas replied. “And those with the potential do not often develop their talent. That being said, it is more than simply joining others in their dreams. True Dreamers can manipulate the Fade to their liking.”

“You’re not serious,” Hara said flatly. _Surely there were limits_ , she thought. _Even to magic._ There had to be.

Solas simply waved a hand in response. The linen closet shifted around them: the shelves of cloth winked out of existence, the stone walls disappeared, and the wooden floor shifted underneath her feet to become plush, green grass. Hundreds of pine trees sprung up from the earth and stretched towards the sky in the blink of an eye, so fast she almost missed seeing them grow to giants—taller, taller, and taller still until they all but blotted out the sky.

“Gods, you _were_ serious,” Hara whispered, awestruck as she craned her neck upwards to take in the trees, inhaling the scent of piney woods as she took a steadying breath.

“Quite,” Solas chuckled, a satisfied smile upon his face as he watched her marvel at the scene he’d created.

“No wonder you said you preferred the Fade to the waking world,” Hara mused, tearing her eyes away from the forest to face him once more. “I might, too, if I could create anything I liked out of thin air.”

“Would you like to?”

Hara couldn’t help but laugh, though she stopped when she took in the serious look upon Solas’ face. “Solas, I could sooner become the Empress of Orlais than do what you’ve just done.”

“Perhaps you will,” Solas said lightly. “You have a fine head for a crown, _vhenan_.”

Hara jumped at the sensation of something springing into existence on top of her head. She reached up tentatively to touch her head and a wide, slow smile spread across her face at the buttery soft feeling of flower petals underneath her fingertips. Hara gingerly pulled the arrangement off the top of her head and marveled at a crown of white peonies Solas had magicked into existence.

“It is beautiful, Solas,” Hara laughed, placing the flower crown back upon her head. “Though I doubt the empress would be caught dead without her jewels.”

“I can change it if you like,” Solas replied, one hand upon his chin as he considered her fondly. “Perhaps gold would suit you better.”

“No!” Hara said, and she surprised herself with the forcefulness of her denial. “I like it this way.”

“ _Ma nuvenin,_ ” Solas chuckled. “Though in all seriousness, I _could_ help you create whatever you liked.”

“How?” Hara asked, clearly skeptical. “I haven’t got any control over my magic in the waking world. Will it be different here?”

“Yes,” Solas replied. “Most mages find the manipulation of magical energies to be significantly easier in places where the Veil is thin. In the Fade itself, if enough magic is brought to bear and directed in a way that is meaningful? You might create a whole world of your choosing.”

“Of my choosing,” Hara repeated, her tone flat and disbelieving. She hadn’t been able to manipulate _anything_ beyond the mark, and truth be told, it responded to rifts like a moth to a flame. Though she’d never tried to suppress its response, she doubted she had any more control over it than she did the weather… or of her _own magical potential,_ as Dorian had so aptly put it earlier that evening. 

“Yes, of your choosing,” Solas repeated patiently. “Though I have serious doubts about your ability to do it independently, given your limited experience with magic and your lack of faith in your ability to control it. For now, I can help you shape the Fade such that we can both experience something of your choosing with full consciousness.”

“So am I to understand that _you_ could help _me_ create an entire world, simply by willing it into existence?” Hara asked, clearly incredulous.

“Yes,” Solas responded, amusement dancing in his eyes as he took in her skeptical expression. “Though that is a vast oversimplification. Without wasting what remains of the evening on a lecture about magical theory, perhaps you will allow me to show you.”

He extended his hand. Hara captured her bottom lip between her teeth again—an instant’s worry, a moment’s hesitation—before offering her own in return.

Solas’ hand was cool, almost icy to the touch. In spite of the chill, the sensation of his skin against hers was almost intoxicating. It was as if she’d come alive just then, as though she’d been lost in dreaming until he took her hand in his. She felt the strangest sensation reverberating out from the center of her palm and down her arm, dancing along her skin and racing through her body—more than a vibration, not quite a shock, and entirely exhilarating.  She realized she could sense Solas’ magic pulsing against the Anchor—against her _own,_ heady and warm, diametrically opposed and yet somehow entirely complementary.

“I can _feel_ your magic,” Hara marveled, her brows raised high on her forehead as she looked up into his face in surprise.

“And I, yours,” Solas replied, clearly fighting back a self-satisfied smile at the wonder in her tone.

“I think… No, I _know_ I’ve felt you like this before,” Hara wondered aloud, a memory of his hand in hers in the center of Val Royeaux suddenly bubbling up in her mind.

“When?” Solas asked, a tone of mild surprise coloring his voice as he traced his fingertips along the lines of her palm.

“In Val Royeaux,” Hara responded, fighting against a shiver that threatened to run down her spine at the vibration of Solas’ magic against her skin. “When the Lord Seeker claimed he’d done Orlais a favor when the Templars left the Chantry to purge the mages. I could feel your magic on my skin before you even cast.”

“I wondered how you knew,” Solas responded, a thoughtful smile on his face and a faraway look in his eyes. Perhaps he was reliving the impassioned moment in the square, recalling how he’d conjured icy magic in his hand as Lucius ran his mouth. “I was cocky in my youth, always ready to fight. It is a character flaw I have not entirely overcome, it seems.”

“You?” Hara laughed, imagining him young and fierce and full of swagger. It was a thoroughly attractive mental image; despite his measured nature, this younger Solas seemed entirely in keeping with her perception of him now. “Actually, I can see that. Truth be told, I could even see you neck-deep in trouble if the occasion called for it.”

“You would be correct,” Solas said wryly, a sour look upon his face that stole away the easy smile he’d worn before. “Though that is a conversation for another time. Have you experienced this since then? A connection with my magic, or with others’?”

“Yes,” Hara responded, her voice thin as she remembered how overcome with terror she’d been as she felt his magic, wild and fierce and unfettered, and then just _gone_ before she and Dorian escaped Alexius’ false future. “Though I’d rather not revisit it now, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Solas replied, a curious sort of look upon his face, as though she’d piqued his interest with her vague comment. “It can wait. As for now… Where would you like to go?”

“It could be anywhere?” Hara asked.

“Technically yes, but it will be easier for me to help you recreate a place from memory than to conjure up something from your imagination.”

“From my memory,” she pondered aloud. She had little desire to revisit much of anything within recent memory, but… “Does it matter if it is a specific memory? Or a recent one?”

“What matters is the strength of your emotional connection to it,” Solas replied. “Feelings are a magic in and of themselves.”

“I see,” Hara murmured. “And will it be just the place? Or other aspects as well?” She felt a strange sensation growing in the center of her chest: something like restrained hope. _Would there be people, too? Or the memories of them?_

“That is impossible for me to know,” Solas replied, the tone of his voice soft, as though he’d read a shift in her mood. “Whatever it is, it will come from you. I will merely direct the magic to make it possible. Whenever you are ready, let the memory fill your mind’s eye. Will it to become.”

 _Home_ , Hara thought, and she closed her eyes to allow the construct to fill her mind’s eye. She let memories of Wycome run through her mind, memories of the alienage and, intrinsically tied to it: memories of her grandfather.

Hara tightened her grip on Solas’ hand, willing the image in her mind’s eye to _become_ , as he’d instructed. She felt a shiver run down her spine at the sensation of things shifting around her. Her body began to tremble at the sheer intensity of his magic rolling through her, and she let out an audible gasp when he released her hand.

She opened her eyes, and there it was: _home_.

It was a ramshackle village separated from a city proper by brick and mortar and a wrought iron gate, the sturdiest thing about the place. They weren’t walls for protection like in Haven or in Skyhold: they were walls for seclusion, a barrier that held back dirty elven blood, kept poverty from wealth, skin and bones from a five-course meal. They were walls meant to alienate and to other and to punish the downtrodden on a whim.

There were rows of hovels along the walls, tumbledown buildings held together with scrap wood, thatched roofs, and sheer stubbornness, or so her grandfather often said. The only true building in the alienage was the common room, with a proper fireplace and a chimney and a long, scrubbed wooden table for communal meals, the plaster on the walls stained a merry yellow; it even had one real window, though it was missing two panes, the glass of two squares broken or repurposed before she she’d been born.

Despite its many shortcomings, it was clean, cleaner than any human slum beyond the alienage’s walls: a product of pride and widespread agreement that the care with which they tended the place was an act of rebellion in and of itself. And in the center of those walls, the most beautiful tree she’d ever seen: a sturdy, wide vhenadhal tended by the alienage’s elders. It was mostly bare, but budding leaves were beginning to pepper its high, broad branches, waving peacefully in the chill night air.

After her grandfather, she had loved this tree best. It was a castle in the air for elven children, a place of revelry decorated with paper lanterns and colorful ornaments on rare nights of celebration, a guardian for their dead after they’d left them for the Beyond. It held hopes and promises and woes and misery, ancient but firm against the struggles of daily life. The vhenadhal was more than a tree: it was proof that life could go on, that one could bend without breaking, that the passage of time was not always towards some inevitable end. That some things were too stubborn to be stamped down by flat, human feet.

She was pulled from her reverie as Solas let out an audible sigh at her side, taking in the alienage in all its dilapidated glory. Hara felt a wave of defensiveness roll through her, a strange compulsion to defend the ramshackle, poverty-stricken place that had borne her.

“This is my home, and I am not ashamed of where I come from, Solas,” Hara said firmly, the thin line of her mouth and the set of her chin reflecting something like defiance.

“Nor should you be,” Solas murmured in response, his eyes roving over the tumbledown buildings before settling on the great tree she had loved so much. He wandered slowly towards the vhenadhal and placed one hand almost reverently against its rough, grey bark. “This is what you once loved, yes? Why you let the Dalish mark you as Mythal’s?”

Hara inhaled sharply. _How had he known_? But then she remembered the conversation in Haven’s tavern. _Why Mythal?_ He’d asked her, as he pried the secret of her vallaslin from her mouth. _Her branches reminded me of something I once loved._

“I don’t belong to anyone, least of all Mythal,” Hara murmured in response as she joined him by the vhenadhal. “But yes. I loved this tree.” She walked in a wide, slow circle around its trunk, her eyes taking in wounds in its bark, knots where she’d hidden treasures as a child, the wide, heavy boughs she’d climbed in youth.

Her eyes flickered to Solas’ face for but a moment, and he could not hide the sympathetic look in his eyes quickly enough. Anger bubbled up hot and fast within her and she opened her mouth to protest, to replace his pity with scorn, but something beyond the vhenadhal’s branches caught her eye.

“There’s a light in the common room,” Hara whispered, more to herself than to Solas.

She knew there could only be one person there at this hour; this was her memory, after all. He would be working until the stars pricked the heavens, distracting himself from his failing health by planning and sketching and weaving masterpieces upon worn looms that seemed to obey his hands alone, only to return home once his granddaughter scolded him to bed. It always struck her as odd, how their roles seemed to reverse towards the end.

Her feet carried her towards the memory of the common room on their own accord, and before she knew it, she’d pushed open the worn door and strode right in, just as she’d done countless times before.

Solas followed her through the threshold without another word. She was glad for his silence, afraid that if she spoke again, if they breathed too loudly, moved too quickly, it might all disappear before her eyes.

That _he_ might disappear before her eyes.

Her grandfather was hunched over the scrubbed wooden table and sketching something on a scrap of parchment in the flickering light of a dying candle. His face was tanned, much darker than her own, though the slope of his nose matched hers perfectly. His almond-shaped eyes, a brilliant, cornflower blue, were peppered with crows feet borne of laughter and of worry, and his generous mouth was pulled into the ghost of a frown as he attempted to make his old, misshapen hands obey him. There were lines on his face she’d forgotten, one particularly prominent between his brows as he squinted at his artwork in the meager light. Hara fought back a strange urge to drag her index finger between her brows, to feel out the worry line steadily deepening on her own face.

“Your grandfather?” Solas asked, his tone hushed as he took in the scene before them.

“Yes,” Hara confirmed, and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth as she observed him. He was just as she remembered towards the end. He might have another eight or nine months left, at a guess, if the budding leaves on the vhenadhal reflected springtime. He was to die that same winter.

“His name?” Solas requested quietly, watching her grandfather’s trembling, gnarled hand adjust his grip on the thin piece of charcoal between his fingertips.

“Revas,” Hara supplied, fighting back a sudden impulse to take the charcoal from his memory, to bid him to stop for the night before he exacerbated the ever-present ache in his hands. Before the chilled night air stole the breath from his lungs.

“Freedom,” Solas observed, his hands behind his back and a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched her grandfather struggle to grip his charcoal. “Backwards, perhaps, but still fitting.”

“Backwards?” Hara asked, though she did not look at him. She could not tear her eyes away from her grandfather.

“Rebellion generally predates freedom,” Solas said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “Though it seems you came after. Was he your mother’s father?”

“Yes,” Hara said, her lips quirking into an uneasy smile.

She hoped he would not ask more of her family than she could give. She did not know her father and her mother had died in childbirth. It wasn’t painful to speak of it—how could one hurt for something one had never known?—but it was one of the few things her grandfather had refused to talk about when she was a child. She knew it hurt him deeply to think of his only child, dead before she’d reached twenty summers, and he, suddenly thrust backward into parenthood, the sole caregiver for a screaming babe he had lacked the good health to raise to adulthood.

Just then, her grandfather’s breath rattled ominously in the dim common room, his exhalation barely strong enough to stir the dying flame of the candle. Suddenly, his lips were pulled into a grimace and he held a gnarled hand to his chest, as if he could will away what came next. He began to cough, a slow, deep, rattling sound at first, but then so intensely and so loudly that he began to gasp for breath. Revas clapped a hand over his mouth and attempted to pull in deep, steadying breaths through his nose. It helped to stifle the sound, but not soon enough it seemed.

A flash burst through the doors of the common room and in came a mere slip of a girl, a deep-set scowl upon her young, bare face. It was her: the better part of twelve, freckles and fury and a head of long, straight hair; wide, impatient brown eyes and skinny arms in a thin, holey nightgown.

“You?” Solas asked, a complex look upon his face, as though he were feeling a number of competing emotions all at once.

“Me,” Hara confirmed, and she shivered at the altogether disconcerting sensation of watching herself like this, of reliving a memory of her childhood from outside of her body.

“Drink,” her younger self commanded, and she thrust a cup of something into his gnarled hands, lips pursed as she watched her grandfather drink every last drop.

“Ma serannas, _da’len_ ,” her grandfather replied, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand.

“Why are you still up?” she heard herself ask, her tone sharp. “I waited for you for _ages_ until I fell asleep and here you are, right where I left you: Working in the dark and the cold until you hack up a lung!”

“Quite forceful for such a little thing, weren’t you?” Solas murmured, his eyes fixed on her younger self’s face.

“I was twelve and my only living relative was working himself to death.” Hara responded, her voice flat as she pursed her lips in displeasure, a twin gesture with the memory of her younger self. “You can see he’s not well. Of course I was forceful.”

“ _Ir abelas_ , Harellan, I meant no offense,” Solas murmured just as her grandfather said, “Peace, Harellan, I am almost finished.”

“You are getting too old for this,” her younger self chided, and she tugged both the parchment and the worn piece of charcoal from his hands. “Let me see.”

Revas held out his hands, and the joints of his fingers were swollen and knotted, some of his fingers stiff, others bent at unnatural angles. “I’m not in any pain, _da’len_ ,” he said.

“Yet,” her younger self huffed.

Her grandfather let out a long-suffering sigh in return, but it was punctuated with a patient smile.

“Deshanna will be here in the morning,” Revas said, breaking the silence after a time. Her younger self still had his hands in hers, inspecting them with an intense frown on her pale, freckled face. “I have to finish this for her approval and then I promise, I will come to bed.”

“A weaving pattern for Clan Lavellan,” Hara supplied. She could practically feel questions radiating off of Solas, but it seemed he did not want to disrupt the memory to ask them. “His last, I think.”

“I wish I could help, _papae_ ,” her younger self said. It was a defeated sort of admission, punctuated with a great, heavy sigh, the movement so intense she could see her bony spine through the thin nightgown.

“You do help, _da’len_ ,” her grandfather said. She had known even then that he was simply placating her—and it seemed that he knew as well. “Listen,” he said. “Tomorrow I will be exhausted and my hands will not obey me.”

“I know!” young Harellan practically shouted. “Why do you think I am in here scolding you? You’ve got to play the wedding song for Anise and Mahanon tomorrow. They can’t get married without you!”

“You’ll do it for me, won’t you, _ma’lath_?”

“Me, _papae_?” Her younger self squeaked, her ire snuffed out to make room for shock.

“You, _da’len_ ,” her grandfather repeated, and Hara felt her heart wrench at the loving look he cast on her younger self; she tilted her chin back in an effort to discourage the tears pooling behind her eyes.

“You think I am ready?”

“Oh, I do not know that you are _ready_ , Harellan,” her grandfather responded, his tone light and teasing. “You will need many, many more moons before I might judge your readiness. A fine player is like a fine wine, _ma’lath_. It must sit and simmer and age before one uncorks it and judges the contents within.”

She said nothing, clearly waiting with bated breath.

“But given the state of things,” her grandfather continued, and he raised his eyes to the thatched roof of the common room, his eyes fixed in a hole in the ceiling as he fought back a smile, “I suppose you shall do.”

“I will not disappoint you,” her smaller self declared fiercely. “Anything to help. _Ar lath, papae_.”

“ _Ar lath,_ Harellan,” her grandfather smiled, and he pressed a soft kiss onto her small, freckled forehead.

Hara had been so absorbed in the scene before her that she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden sensation of Solas’ hand on her waist.

“You are loved, Harellan,” Solas murmured.

The memory wavered before the common room within the alienage faded from view and in its stead came Solas’ quarters, though they were back to normal, the shelves upon shelves of linens gone along with the strange window and the memory of daylight beaming in.

“I was loved, yes,” she replied, and she discreetly passed her index fingers underneath her eyes to brush away the moisture pooling beneath her eyes.

“You are loved,” Solas corrected, and she allowed herself to lean against him, to be supported by the weight of his calloused hand upon her waist, solid and real even in the strangeness of the Fade.

Solas pulled her closer, coaxed her head onto his chest and wrapped his arms around her. She felt his chin atop her head and as she lay the pointed shell of her ear against his chest, she could count the beating of his heart.

“ _Ma serannas_ , Solas,” Hara whispered into the fabric of his tunic. “I did not think I would ever see him again, at least not…” She pushed away memories of the countless times she’d seen demons of Despair masquerade through her dreams wearing his face. “Not whole.” 

“ _Ma neral, vhenan_ ,” Solas murmured into her hair, and she tightened her arms around his waist in response.

Hara had just opened her mouth to ask him if he might share a memory in return when she woke, pulled from the Fade by a frantic pounding on his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ma nuvenin - as you wish   
> ar lath - (i love) - a shortened phrase   
> ma'lath - my love  
> da'len - child  
> papae - father   
> ma serannas - my thanks  
> ma neral - my pleasure   
> vhenan - (my) heart


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi pals!! sorry for taking forever! hope you're all surviving the holiday season :)
> 
> ps - moderately NSFW

Hara woke with a gasp, her face pressed into the crook of Solas’ neck. She was practically on top of him, close as they’d had to sleep to one another on the chaise; her thighs straddled one of Solas’ legs and he had his arms tucked snugly around her in an effort to keep her from falling off the narrow surface. Solas stirred underneath her as he rejoined the waking world, and Hara felt more than heard the impatient noise in his throat, a growl of displeasure that rumbled against her cheek. 

For a moment, she thought he meant to ignore whomever was pounding harshly on his door as he pulled her closer, his arms flexed tightly around her frame as he buried his nose in her hair. She felt him draw in a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a steady, controlled fashion against hers—perhaps gathering his composure before gently pushing her back and away from him. 

Hara felt the loss of his warm body tangled up in hers keenly as he rose from the chaise, conjuring a single magelight with a wave of one hand as he moved slowly towards the door. Solas opened the door a few inches, enough that he could properly greet whomever had disturbed him for the second time that night, but not widely enough that their visitor might catch sight of Hara within.

“Seeker,” Solas greeted shortly, his voice polite but thick with sleep, though Hara thought she heard impatience in his exhalation. “How may I help you?”

“I am looking for the Inquisitor,” she heard Cassandra growl. “I know she was with Dorian last night, and he has been _most evasive_ about her whereabouts. I have a matter of import to discuss with her and I am in no mood for games.”

“And you thought to find her here?” Solas asked, a tone of mild surprise in his voice. “I was under the impression you had requisitioned quarters specifically for her.”

 _Liar,_ Hara thought, but she could not stop a wide smile from spreading across her face. She willed her breathing to soften and fought against the urge to pull Solas’ blankets tightly around herself to stave off the early morning chill lest the noise give her up.

“Well, I—“ Cassandra began hesitantly, “Perhaps it was presumptuous of me, but I had heard that you and she… That is to say, Dorian implied—“ the Seeker slowed. A long moment passed before she spoke again, this time with a tone bordering on murderous. “I am going to _kill_ that Tevinter.” 

Hara clamped her lower lip tightly between her teeth to stifle her laughter and wished she could see Cassandra’s face. She half-wanted to relieve her from the awkward moment, but the other half was secretly pleased by her discomfort. It was petty, but Hara wanted her to experience some sort of payback for yesterday evening’s debacle in the courtyard. Petty and beneath her—indeed, beneath anyone who might carry such a hefty title, but it felt _right_ , like deliverance and validation to nurse a childish thought as she hid from the Seeker and her demands. _Inquisitor_ , Hara thought bitterly. _Maker, what a crock._

“While I cannot claim to know Dorian’s mind, I can assure you that I have not spoken with the Inquisitor this morning,” Solas answered, his tone cool and impassive. “In the event that I see her before you do, I shall tell her she is wanted.”

“Thank you, Solas,” Cassandra replied, and Hara was sure the color had risen in her perfectly chiseled cheeks. “I would not come calling at such an early hour if it were not vital that I speak with her. The _dwarf_ ,” Cassandra spat, any embarrassment she might’ve felt swiftly supplanted with vitriol, “Has done something most inappropriate, and I thought to seek the Inquisitor’s counsel before I—”

Cassandra trailed off just then, and in her silence Hara’s imagination was filled with images of the Seeker bludgeoning Varric half-to-death with cookware. Hara resolved herself to finding the dwarf before Cassandra did: first to warn him about her murderous temper, and second to tease him about whatever he’d done to infuriate her so.

“Nevertheless,” she continued abruptly, “I apologize for the, ah… rude awakening.”

“No matter, Seeker,” Solas said, his tone kind but dismissive, and he made to close the door to his chambers. Hara saw the muscles in his forearm tense as he caught the door before it shut. He leaned out through the doorway and called after her. “Seeker?”

“Yes, Solas?” Cassandra called back.

“If you do intend to murder one or both of them, might I suggest the training grounds rather than the throne room?” Solas offered, a smile in his voice. “I believe our ambassador might lose her mind if you undo her remarkable efforts at tidying the keep.”

“I will endeavor to keep blood off the marble,” Cassandra replied, her tone lighter than before, “Though I imagine it would come as less of a shock than what that horrible dwarf has done.”

Hara watched the muscles of Solas’ back shift has he inhaled, and she could almost hear a faint laugh as he exhaled through his nostrils. He waited a moment, his long, elegant fingers lingering on the doorknob before he closed the door and turned to face her once more.

“That was duplicitous, Solas,” Hara said, clearly amused as she gazed at him from the chaise. She’d tucked her legs up towards her chest and rested her head against her knees as she drank in the sight of him, the skin of his bare torso an attractive, milky hue in the dim lighting of his quarters.

“Perhaps,” Solas replied. “Though I told her no falsehoods.” He did not look at all sorry as he took in the sight of her messy hair, half the strawberry strands having escaped the haphazard braid she’d put it in at some point yesterday, nor as his eyes wandered across her bare shoulder, the oversized tunic she wore shifting to reveal the prominent line of her collarbone.

“No?” Hara asked, willing away a blush as she allowed her eyes to wander over his form.

He was taller and broader than any other elven man she’d met, all sharp angles and well-developed muscles, nothing at all like her underfed clanmates in the Marches. He stalked towards her with an almost predatory look in his eye, the corners of his lips quirked into an impossibly attractive half-smile.

“No,” Solas repeated as he closed the distance slowly between them, the wolfish grin he wore when playing cards breaking out across his face; she both loved and hated the things that smile did to her. “I said I had not spoken to you this morning. That was true until but a moment ago. 

“Technicalities,” Hara scoffed, feeling her heartbeat quicken with every step he took towards her.

“I can call her back, if you like,” Solas murmured as he smirked at her from above, all mischief and mirth as he hovered over her on the chaise. “Or I can simply do as I promised. The Seeker appreciates action, does she not?”

“That she does.”

“To action, then,” Solas chuckled as he crawled over her, pressing her body down into the chaise, the weight and warmth of his body against her own sending a jolt of longing through her. “I believe I am to deliver a message,” he said between open-mouthed kisses along her neck.

“For me?” Hara breathed, her hands wandering appreciatively across the solid muscles of his abdominals, fingernails digging into the prominent lines of his obliques. 

“Yes,” Solas growled as he bit a trail along her clavicle, one hand creeping underneath her oversized tunic, fingertips trailing along the edge of her breastband in a way that was maddeningly distracting.

“What is it?” Hara bit out, her hands now slack against his stomach as she tried to remember how to breathe in the midst of the sensation of his mouth, his tongue, his hands, her hips canting upward against his instinctively.

“You are wanted,” Solas chuckled, his breath hot against the nape of her neck, and he drug his tongue along the curve of her skin before tugging her earlobe between his teeth.

Hara arched her back to press her chest closer to his, biting back a heady moan at the sensation of his mouth, warm and wet against her skin. Solas took the opportunity to slide his hands around her back, his deft fingers quickly unlacing the ties of her breastband. He had her tunic halfway off before they heard a quiet rapping on the chamber door once more. 

Hara froze, and she could see a muscle working in Solas’ jaw, tightly as he’d clenched his teeth. 

“Maybe they’ll just go away if we ignore them,” Hara whispered. 

Solas gave her a sly grin and began inching her tunic up once more. The quiet knock returned, more insistent than before.

“I know you’re in there, Scarecrow,” they heard Varric hiss from outside the door. “And if it weren’t an emergency, I’d leave the both of you to your devices and—“

“He does sound rather desperate,” Solas sighed.

Hara rolled her eyes and gently separated herself from Solas once more. She padded quietly to the door and opened it two scant inches to glare out at the dwarf in question.

“If the Seeker doesn’t kill you, I’m liable to,” Hara said in greeting.

“You can beat me to death later, Scarecrow,” Varric offered, “I’ll even let you plan your assault on the way up to the battlements. There’s someone here you need to meet.”

 *** * ***  

“Scarecr—er… Inquisitor Lavellan, I’d like you to meet a dear friend of mine,” Varric said, fighting back a nervous grin as he gestured with a flourish to a darkened corner atop the battlements. 

Hara watched a lithe figure emerge from the shadows and step into the meager morning light, adjusting a dark fur cloak slung around her shoulders as she stood from where she’d been crouched behind a large crate. 

The woman was willowy but solid, her not inconsiderable stature dwarfed by the truly monstrous bow slung across her back. Her eyes were a piercing, bright blue and her skin was an attractive olive; she had a curtain of shiny black hair pulled away from her face with a half-knot perched on top of her head, the rest hanging freely down her back and blowing in the icy wind atop the battlements. A streak of red warpaint covered her nose, the slash of color accentuating a pair of high cheekbones. Even without the warpaint, Hara would’ve known her anywhere. 

“Arenna Hawke,” the Champion of Kirkwall said, giving her a lopsided grin as she stuck out a hand good-naturedly.

Hara took the woman’s hand and shook it, the warmth of the Champion’s leather glove in her hand a pleasant respite from the chill outside. 

“Hara Lavellan,” she offered, the bastardized version of her name along with the clan’s tasting sour in her mouth. She managed to return Hawke’s easy smile with one of her own nevertheless. “Pleased to meet you. How’d you manage to get up her up here without alerting half of Skyhold, Varric?”

Hawke snorted as she released Hara’s hand, turning her piercing blue gaze on their uncharacteristically silent dwarven companion. “Yes, Varric,” Arenna goaded, and the lilt of her voice managed to be at once both charming and sarcastic. “Tell the nice Inquisitor how you managed that daring feat.”

Hara had seen Varric flustered on perhaps two occasions, one involving a pony and jests about his masculinity, and the other, a near-sacrificial burning of his manuscript. However, she had never— _never_ —seen him blush, and here he was, reddened all the way down to his glorious mane of chest hair.

“Made a diversion,” Varric mumbled, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck as he stared down at his boots.

“A diversion,” Hara repeated, curving one eyebrow as she crossed her arms across her chest.

“I… might have started a drinking competition in the courtyard,” Varric said sheepishly. “Soldiers versus civilians. Ten gold pieces to the last man or woman standing.”

“And?” Hara asked uneasily. 

“And you’ve got a number of folks in various states of undress sleeping in the training yard,” Hawke snickered, gesturing over the battlements to the strangest scene Hara had ever laid eyes on.

Sera, asleep in just her smalls and her stained red tunic atop several pairs of breeches with her own plaidweave leggings tied jauntily around her neck. The Iron Bull, leaned against a wall with not one, but three red-headed maidens in his massive arms, someone’s breastband tied around his horns. Adan, and could that be… Flissa? Curled up together by the remnants of a campfire. And several soldiers and mages whose names she did not know, stumbling around and attempting to locate their clothing under the supervision of one distinctly unamused Seeker and a red-faced Commander Cullen.

“Maker’s balls, Varric,” Hara spluttered. “No wonder Cassandra wanted to have you hanged, drawn, and quartered.” 

“That’s my Varric,” Hawke teased, punching the dwarf lightly on the shoulder as he steadfastly avoided her gaze. “Terrible with decorum, but great for morale!”

“I hate to think what she’ll do to me once she figures out Hawke’s here,” Varric muttered, “But with this shit with Corypheus going on, I knew she had to come.”

A shiver ran unbidden down her spine at the mention of the magister’s name. “What do you know about him?” Hara asked, the corners of her mouth pulled into the ghost of a frown as she gazed up at the Champion of Kirkwall.

“Well, there was that time I released him from an ancient Warden prison miles beneath the surface in a blood magic ritual,” Hawke answered, all the mirth gone from her voice and her eyes.

“He was dead as a doornail when we were through with him,” Varric amended. “Scout’s honor.”

“Oh, well that clears things up nicely,” Hara whispered, feeling suddenly dizzy and keenly aware of just how high up they were.

“Drink?” Varric offered, producing an almost comically large bottle of wine from within the crate Hawke had crouched behind.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” Hara intoned, accepting the bottle and taking a long pull from it before passing it to the Champion. “I hate wine.”


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hara + hawke = camper singing "getting to know you! getting to knooooow all about you!" a la julie andrews in "the King and I"
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MNANgFCYpk

Half a bottle of wine and several incredulous questions later, Hara had the story of Hawke’s encounter with Corypheus committed to memory. She told herself the shaking of her hands had more to do with the biting wind atop the battlements than with the horrifying implications of the Champion’s tale.

“Just to summarize,” Hara said, Varric and Hawke watching her intently, “Your father, Malcom Hawke—brilliant and notorious apostate extraordinaire—helped the Wardens seal Corypheus miles beneath the surface in an ancient Warden prison… in a blood magic ritual.”

“Quite right,” Hawke said, as nonchalant as if she were commenting on the weather.

“And you only discovered this happy fact about your father because the Carta was hunting you—in broad daylight, no less—up and down every street in Kirkwall.”

“Well it wasn’t every street, just most of them, and sometimes in the dead of night. But yeah, you get the gist,” Varric said, chasing his clarification with another swig of wine.

“So, naturally, the best course of action was to follow the Carta to the Vimmark Mountains,” Hara extrapolated, “Even though they wanted your blood specifically to open a Grey Warden prison that had successfully contained an ancient darkspawn magister for the past thousand years.”

“Well I didn’t know that at the time,” Hawke huffed. “I just knew they were trying to kill me, and I was ever so intent on not dying. Social obligations and all that. I’m sure you understand.”

“Not to mention they were after Bethany, too,” Varric muttered. “Poor kid.”

“Yes,” Hawke said sharply. “Not to mention.”

It was clear that whoever _Bethany_ was, she was a sore spot. Hara elected to drop it. If she’d been integral to the story, surely Hawke wouldn’t have left her out.

“Anyway,” Hawke continued. “It wasn’t just the Carta who wanted him out. It was the Wardens themselves. They wanted to… To use him. To understand him. Corypheus was somehow able to use his connection to the darkspawn to influence them. If I hadn’t opened the seal myself, they’d have found some other way to set him free. I’m sure of it.”

Hara ignored the shudder that ran down her spine at the notion of a fireside chat between an ancient darkspawn magister and some nameless Warden Commander. Sometimes idiocy knew no bounds.

“The seals were breaking,” Hawke continued in Hara’s silence. “They were losing their potency, wearing down over time. Only the blood of a Hawke could’ve renewed them, and I’m hardly prepared to raise a squadron of children for the sole purpose of blood sacrifice.”

“And Andraste save us from a smaller version of you,” Varric muttered.

Hara couldn’t help the wry smile that spread across her face at the dwarf’s comment, and Hawke utterly beamed at him with a broad, toothy grin that stood out beautifully against her dark olive skin.

“Anyway!” Hawke continued, apparently keen to finish her explanation. “All that to say, he would’ve gotten out one way or another. I only broke the seals to kill Corypheus. And we did. Kill him, that is. But now he’s back, and if the Wardens have disappeared, they could have fallen under Corypheus’ control once more.”

“Fenedhis,” Hara growled. “So Corypheus has the red Templars, the Venatori, and now possibly the Grey Wardens as well?”

“Yes,” Hawke said, a pinched, sour look upon her face. “It’s possible. But we need to know more first. I’ve got a friend in the Wardens. He was investigating something unrelated for me. His name is Stroud… The last time we spoke, he was worried about corruption in the Warden ranks. Since then, nothing.”

“Corypheus would certainly qualify as corruption in the ranks,” Varric said. “Did Stroud disappear with them?”

“No. He told me he’d be hiding in an old smuggler’s cave near Crestwood,” Hawke supplied.

“If you didn’t know about Corypheus,” Hara began slowly, a seed of unease planted in her heart, “What were you doing with the Wardens?”

“The templars in Kirkwall were using a strange form of lyrium. It was red,” Hawke said grimly. “We…”—this said with a meaningful look in Varric’s direction—“Encountered it in the Deep Roads several years ago. An idol, made of pure red lyrium. It was the only of its’ kind, and now… Well, I’m sure you’ve seen that it’s spread.”

Hara felt her heart drop into her stomach. “Fuck,” she said.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” said Varric.

“I had hoped Stroud might be able to shed some light on it,” Hawke continued, her frown deepening. “He’s a good man. I hate to think that something might have happened to him… Or to the other Wardens. We should get to Crestwood as soon as possible, Inquisitor.”

“Harellan,” she corrected quietly, chewing the corner of her lip as she thought about what she might have done in Hawke’s place. Would she have risked the wards breaking on their own? Or would she have bled to keep Thedas safe? It was not in question, not really. She’d have done the same as Hawke. Hadn’t she already bled for Thedas? Wasn’t she still bleeding? No, the _real_ question was how he’d managed to survive. And where he’d picked up an ancient elvhen artifact, and how this all fit together in his plans to tear the Veil asunder.

“Bless you,” Hawke said.

“Hm?” Hara asked, distracted, flexing her marked hand absentmindedly. She’d been imagining Corypheus’ monstrous face contorted in rage. _You have spoilt it with your stumbling_.

“She didn’t sneeze, Hawke,” Varric chuckled. “That’s her name. Harellan,” Varric repeated. He said her name slowly, carefully pronouncing the distinctly elvhen syllables of her full name. “Though it seems to be on reserve.”

“Oh,” Hara said stupidly, and she felt a faint warmth creep into her cheeks. She hadn’t realized. “I’m sorry,” she said, eyes fixed on Hawke to avoid Varric’s teasing gaze. “It’s just that I’d rather you not call me Inquisitor in friendly company, if you don’t mind. Or unfriendly company, for that matter.”

“Can do,” Hawke said. She asked no further questions, and Hara figured her easy acceptance had something to do with the fact that hardly anyone called the Champion by her proper name, either. “Anyway, I’d like to set off for Crestwood as soon as possible. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love some supplies before I hit the road again.”

“So soon?” Varric asked, an almost wounded look upon his face that he quickly smoothed away.

“Time waits for no man,” Hawke said with a mock seriousness. “Or dwarf. Or darkspawn, I guess. You could always come with me, you know. We could scout ahead before the Inquisition follows.”

Varric gave Hara a questioning, hopeful look. She stared back. He couldn’t possibly be asking her for _permission_ , could he?

“Can Varric come out and play?” Hawke asked, her eyes wide with childish optimism, a mocked pout upon her lips.

“You don’t really think you need my consent, do you?” Hara asked, incredulous.

“You _are_ the Inquisitor,” Varric said pointedly.

“Yes, _very_ important,” Hawke said seriously.

“Maker’s balls, you two.” Hara swore. “Of course you can go. Come on, Hawke. I’ll take you to secure some rations. Varric, why don’t you head to the armory to stock up on arrows and bolts? You might also swing by Adan and see if he’s got any medicinals on hand. On second thought, I’ll do that myself. I’m not sure he’s sober. Or dressed.”

*** * ***

All it took was one meandering trip to the kitchens (it was Hara’s first time there, during which she accidentally led Hawke to both an ancient, dusty library and what was apparently the wine cellar) for half of Skyhold to know the Champion was on the premises. Perhaps people were intimidated by the imperious half-scowl upon Arenna’s face or Hara’s newly minted title, but they managed to obtain rations for two without so much as a word to anyone.

Nevertheless, whispers and wide-eyed stares greeted them around every corner, and Hara resolved herself to haranguing Varric and Hawke into a meeting with Leliana, Josphine, and Cullen before they departed, lest one of the advisors (Leliana, most likely, Hara thought) hang her from the battlements for withholding information and sending the Champion and their resident storyteller off headlong into danger without a proper consultation. They walked in companionable silence, Hara leading Hawke through the throne room and out onto the battlements, reasonably sure she knew how to exit the fortress by now.

“I’m surprised you don’t have more questions,” Hawke commented as they tripped lightly down the keep’s staircase and into the courtyard below. “Did you read Varric’s book?”

“I didn’t, actually,” Hara replied, and she couldn’t decide if she should feel embarrassed about that fact. “Why, is any of it true?”

“I have no idea,” Hawke laughed. “Never read it myself. Didn’t need to, I figured, considering I lived it.”

“You _do_ know he’s got a horrible penchant for dramatic artistic embellishment,” Hara said in disbelief.

Arenna placed her hand to her chest as though she’d been mortally wounded. “My dear Inquisitor, you cannot possibly be suggesting that our Varric tells tall tales?” Her voice was practically slathered in feigned naivety. “He is nothing if not practical, forthcoming, and morally opposed to exaggeration of any kind!”

“Not Inquisitor, please,” Hara sighed, the ghost of a frown usurping the easy smile she’d worn before. “Anything but that. Why did you let him?”

“As if I could stop him! And they’re going to write about you anyway, _Herald_ ,” the Champion laughed. “Better to have your mistakes immortalized in print by someone who loves you, isn’t it?”

Hara truly did frown at that. The title was irritating, though she’d walked right into that one, but the point Hawke was making was troublesome, too. Was that love? Exaggeration among nuggets of truth, on display for the whole world to see? She hadn’t thought about it that way before, but she supposed there must be some kind of affection attached to Varric’s need to incessantly chronicle (and often exaggerate) every detail of her time with the Inquisition.

“He does, you know,” Hawke said in her silence.

“What?”

“Love you,” Hawke said, and her face was oddly earnest, perhaps the most authentic expression she’d worn since Hara met her. “ _Same stupid, Maker-damned, completely horrible save-the-world complex as you, Ren,_ ” Hawke said, affecting Varric’s deep voice. “ _Only without that charming arrogance I love so much. What is it about me, beautiful women, and impossible situations? Don’t worry — she’s a terrible liar and abysmal at cards, so my heart still belongs to you.”_

Hara blinked. _A terrible liar and abysmal at cards?_ It had been ages since they’d had time to do something as frivolous as play cards. That must’ve meant… “He’s been writing to you about me?”

“Of course. Why else would I leave behind the immense pleasure of hunting slavers on a ship full of big-breasted women?”

“I thought the ancient magister darkspawn was the main attraction.”

“Well there’s that,” Hawke sighed, entirely sober for but a moment before she spread the mask of her smile across her face once more. “But beyond that, I had a hankering for the company of my favorite writer. And a not inconsiderable interest in meeting you. Varric’s got good taste, you know. At the very least, he’s entirely right about _me_. Charming _and_ beautiful.”

“I’m not one to bandy words,” Hara laughed, “But I think you missed ‘arrogant’ sandwiched in-between those other highly complimentary adjectives.” She was a little surprised at the ease of their banter, how genuine it felt to laugh with this woman. There was something about the Champion that drew it out of her. _Larger than life_ , Hara thought, as she watched the woman next to her sidle gracefully across the courtyard, purposefully oblivious to the stares the pair of them drew.

“That, my dear woman, goes without saying,” Arenna said. “I am, after all, only here to secure my cameo in _This Shit is Weird: The Inquisitor Lavellan Story_.”

“The _what_?” Hara asked, all mirth gone. She had even stopped their trek towards the armory, standing stock-still in the shadow of the grand staircase on top of which Cassandra had laid upon her yet another ill-fitting title.

“Varric’s working title for your book. I think it’s rather more colorful than _The Tale of the Champion_ , don’t you? Beyond the cameo, I figure it’s only right that I’m here. If you have to clean up a mess of Corypheus’ making, technically you’re cleaning up a mess of _my_ making,” Arenna said, suddenly serious once more. “Or my father’s making. Both, probably. It’s kind of an intergenerational clusterfuck.”

“Horrible titles aside,” Hara said as they resumed their trek towards the armory, “I am grateful you've come.”

“Of course you are,” Hawke chuckled, “I am, after all, a fantastic asset to any team. Now, let’s grab our writer before we meet with these advisors of yours. I refuse to have a reunion with Knight-Captain Cullen without him there to chronicle it. I do so hope he blushes.”

Hara had just opened her mouth to correct Hawke—he was Commander Cullen, now, after all—when the sound of fighting, loud and angry and serious reached their ears even before they reached the armory’s door. It was Cassandra, her Nevarran accent distinct even through the thick wooden door, and someone else. The sound of Varric’s baritone, low and defensive but no less fierce reached their ears, and Hawke’s eyes widened before she charged into the armory, Hara hot on her heels. The encounter before them was clearly tense, Cassandra hulking menacingly over Varric, a snarl upon her face that Varric met with a steely scowl of his own.

“You conniving little shit!” Cassandra cursed as she took a swing at Varric, who narrowly evaded her gauntleted hand.

“You kidnapped me! You interrogated me!” Varric accused, putting several feet of distance and a large wooden table between himself and the Seeker. “I was protecting my friend!”

“She was complicit!” The Seeker hollered. “Her _boyfriend_ blew up the Kirkwall Chantry, incited the mage rebellion, and then she _disappeared!_ We needed someone to lead this Inquisition, to act as a bridge between the rebel mages and the templars! If anyone had a hope of fixing this mess, it was her!”

“She was in love!” Varric bellowed. “And he used her title and her influence to _create_ this mess! You expect me to cheerfully hand her over to a group of people who would only seek to do the same?” 

“She’s standing right here,” Hawke announced, her tone sharp, but the wicked edge of her voice was nothing compared to the terrifying look on her face. “And she doesn’t have to be.”

Cassandra gaped at the pair of them: rage practically roiling off of Hawke, hands clenched into fists at her sides, and Hara, small and stoic, spine straight, arms crossed across her chest. There was nothing but silence and heavy breathing from Varric and Cassandra, biting words from Hawke. Somehow, Hara thought, it was her responsibility to fix this—or, at the very least, to prevent the situation from escalating.

“The Inquisition is indebted to you already, Champion,” Hara said, and she risked placing a hand upon Hawke’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming when you did. _We_ —” this said with a pointed look at a fuming Cassandra, “Realize you did not have to.”

“You’re welcome,” Hawke practically growled, her fierce gaze still fixed on Cassandra. “Though I don’t envy you the company you keep. Find me when you’re done here, Varric.”

And without another word, Hawke pushed her way out the armory door, swinging fiercely in the aftermath of her powerful shove.

“Varric, please go with the Champion and find Josephine.” Hara said, watching Hawke’s retreating form stalk angrily across the courtyard, fearsome and harried but no less graceful. “We need to wrangle the advisors to discuss the intelligence Hawke shared.” Later, she’d think on it: _her first command as Inquisitor_.

“Yes, _go,_ Varric,” Cassandra spat. “You are hardly needed.”

The dwarf did not need to be told twice, though Varric did let out a strangled groan of frustration as he turned on his heel and followed after the Champion.

“That was unworthy of you, Cassandra,” Hara said, breaking the tense silence that followed the slam of the armory door signifying Varric’s exit.  

“I cannot understand your attachment to him,” Cassandra said, her tone only slightly less vitriolic than the one she’d used on Varric. “You cannot afford to place your trust in Varric, Inquisitor.”

“I meant your treatment of the Champion, but sure, why don’t we talk about Varric, too?” Hara snapped.

“Varric is a snake, Inquisitor!” Cassandra hissed, eyes wild and fierce as she slammed her fist into the table for emphasis. “He hid her from us when we needed her the most! She should have been at the Conclave! She could have _stopped_ this madness from happening, could have _prevented_ Justinia’s death!”

“We are not _things_ , Cassandra!” Hara shouted back, and she vaguely registered that she was moving towards the Seeker, hands reaching up to fist around the taller woman’s armor.

Hara drew her across the table and yanked her sharply down to her level, and the Seeker looked as though she’d slapped her. _Good_ , Hara thought. She could not wait for sense to reassert itself, had to say her piece before she realized she was screaming into the face of a woman who had once had her bound and shackled in the dungeons beneath Haven.

“Hawke is a woman, Cassandra,” Hara managed between clenched teeth. “She is a flesh and blood _person_ , not some divinely ordained answer to all of Thedas’ problems. She is not a _tool_ for you to use when it suits you.” _And nor am I_ , she thought, the words unspoken but thick between them nevertheless.

Hara had seen uncertainty on the Seeker’s face before, but never shame. _Shame_. It was in Cassandra’s downcast gaze, the hunch of her shoulders, the softness of her exhalation, the parting of her lips.

It did not stop what came next.

“Would you have asked her, Seeker? Or made her? Had her bound and shackled until she begrudgingly put the weight of the world on her shoulders?”

“I would have asked—“ Cassandra began, her voice unsure, broken.

The words died in the Seeker’s mouth, and Hara felt the fire in her heart begin to quench. She exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and released the taller woman.

“I know the Divine’s death hit you hard, Cassandra,” Hara said. “And I would change that for you if I could. But if Hawke had been there, she’d likely be dead, too.”

“I must not think on what could have been,” Cassandra said, her voice thick with emotion. “We have so much at stake.”

“It is not a weakness to feel deeply about the past,” Hara said slowly, surprised to find Solas’ words falling from her lips. She wondered if they would infuriate Cassandra as they had infuriated her, wise though their sentiment was.

Cassandra was silent for a long moment. Hara watched a muscle working in the Seeker’s jaw as she clenched and unclenched her teeth, a deep line between her brows and her downcast eyes searching along the surface of the table in front of her. Hara wondered if she was looking for words or trying to keep herself from saying ones she’d already found. Suddenly, the Seeker’s shoulders slumped and she let out a great sigh.

“You are right,” Cassandra said, her voice low. “And I am sorry. My trainers always said, ‘Cassandra, you are too brash. You must think before you act.’ I see what must be done and I do it. I do not always consider the consequences of my choices—or the feelings of those affected by them.”

“I…” Hara managed. She had hardly expected a heartfelt apology from the Seeker, especially one so introspective. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Cassandra said, a small smile now playing at the corners of her mouth. “If you are not opposed, Inquisitor, I would like to join you and Hawke in your briefing with the advisors.”

“ _I’m_ not,” Hara said, returning Cassandra’s tiny smile with one of her own. “Though Hawke probably will be. I think she likes me, though, so perhaps I’ll stand between the two of you and we can avoid bloodshed.”

“That would be wise,” Cassandra chuckled. “Solas warned me just this morning about the affect blood on freshly scrubbed marble might have on our ambassador.”

                                                                                                    


End file.
